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PhotDgr^Bic 


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CIHM 
Microfiche 
Séries 
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ICMH 

Collection  de 
microfiches 
(inoriographies) 


r* 


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Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Inacitut  canadien  de  microreproductions  historiques 


■4^' 


Technical  and  Biblio«raphic  Notes  /  Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best  original 

copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this  copy  which 
\      .      may  be  bibliographically  unique,  which  may  alter  any 
^  of  the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 

significantly  change  the  usual  method  of  filming,  are 

checked  below. 


n 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


□  jCovers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommagée 


D 


Covers  restoréd  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurée  et/ou  pelliculée 


j        I  Cover  title  missing/ 


^e  titre  de  couverture  manque 


O  Coloured  maps/ 
Cartes  géographiques  en  couleur 

□  Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

□  Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Pl^nches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

□  Bound  with  other  matériel/ 
Relié  avec  d'autres  documents 


D 


n 


D 


Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serrée  peut  causer  de  l'ombre  «u  de  la 
distorsion  le  long  de  la  marge  intérieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may  appear 
within  the  text.  Whenever  possibfe,  thctte  hâve 
been  omitted  from  1i\nfànq/ 
Il  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajoutées 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  était  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  été  filmées.  ^.^ 


Additional  comments.7 
Commentaires  supplémentaires: 


/f 


L'Institut  a  microfilmé  le  meilleur  exemplaire' qu'^l 
lui  l'été  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  détails  de  cet 
exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-être  uniques  du'point  dé  vue 
bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image 
reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  modification  * 
,  dans  la  méthode  normale  de  f  ilmage  sont  indiqués 
ci-dèssous. 

i 

□  Cqloured  pages/  < 

Pages  de  couleur 

□  Pages  damàged/ 
Pages  endommagées 

□  Pages  rntéi^  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurées  et/ou  pelliculées 

0  Pages  discoloured.  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  décolorées,  tachetées  ou  piquées 

□  Pages  detached/ 
Pages  détachées 

r^a^Showthrough/ 
i 1  Transparence 

•'    ï 

□  Quality  of  print  varies/  * 

Qualité  inégale  de  l'impression 

□  Continuous  pagination/ 
Pagination  continue 
I 

□  Includes  index(es)/ 
Comprend  un  (des)  index 

Title  on  header  taken  from:  / 
Le  titre  de  l'en-téte  provient: 

□  Title  page  of  issue/ 
Page  de  titre  de  la  livraison 

I        I  Caption  of  issue/ 


Titre  de  départ  de  la  livraison 


I I  Gé 


Masthead/ 

Générique  (périodiques)  de  la  livraison 


% 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  réduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmé  au  taux  de  réduction  indiqué  ci-dessous.       -■'tt^^^''^ 


22X 


26  X 


30X 


7 


12X 


>     16X 


20X 


24  X 


28  X 


32  X 


vue 


m 


The  copy  filmed  hère  has  been.reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of  : 

National  Library  of  Canada 


The  images  appearing  hère  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  inlteeping  with  the 
filming  contract  spécifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  endipg  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated' impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  AH 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
f irst  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


k» 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contaih  the  symbol  — ^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED").  or  the  Symbol  V  (meaning  "END  "). 
whichever  applies. 

Maps.  pilâtes,  charts,  etc..  may  be  filmed  at 
différent  réduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and, top  to  bottom.  as  many  frames  as  ^ 
required:  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


L'exemplaire  filmé  fut  reptoduit  grâce  à  la 
générosité  de: 

Bibliothèque  nationale  du  Canada 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  été  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  conditiofi  6t 
de  la  netteté  de  l'exemplaire  filmé,  et  en 
conformité  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
•:^filmage. 

Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimée  sont  filmés  en  commençant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernière  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  oU  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  secorîd 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
origiriaux^ont  filmés  en  commençant  par  la 
première  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte      [ 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  p|ar 
la  dernière  page  qui  comporte  une  telle  / 

empreinte.  / 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaîtra  sUr  la 
dernière  image  de  chaque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — »►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE  ".  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux^,  etc.,  peuvent  être 
filmés  à  des  taux  de  réduction  différents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  être 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliché,  il  est  filmé  à  partir 
de  l'angle  supérieur  gauche,  de  gauche  adroite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nécessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  méthode. 


J 


32  X 


J5 


6 


V 


BY  MAY'iG^'l'S  TLEMING. 


j 


1.- 

2.- 

3.- 

4.- 

3:- 

6l 

7.- 

8.- 

9.- 

10.- 

11.- 

13.- 


-GUY  E.yRLSCOUIÎTS  WIFE 

-A  woNbEiaai.  \voaian 

-A  TERRIBLE  SECRET 

-NORLXE'S  EEVEKGE 

-A  MAD   MAIÎRIAGE 

-ONE  KIGIITS  iAIYSTERY 

-KATE  DANTON. 

-SILEXT  AND  TRUE. 

-HEIR   OF  CTIAI^LTON 

-CARRIED  BY  STORM 

-LOST  FOR  A  WOMAN 

-A    WIFë'S  TU.VGK[)Y^B^^) 


♦^ 


cstln-    ploK    combine    to    'piace 
thpir    nnthorjn     tli«.    vory 
*  trct   rank   ot  ModiTu 

î>i<)VCllStl<." 

'^"  Sl^h*'*'^''^  uniform  w  ifh  fW»  volume     Prier  Si  '^ 


BT 


G.   W.    CARLKTON   &  fO.,  Pnblfsl.ors, 
New  York. 


». 


NORINE'S    REVENGE. 


AND 


SIR  NOEL'S   HEIR, 


BT 


MAY  AGNES  FLEMING, 


ACTHOR    or  •     ^ 

"OCY     FARLSCOURT'S     WIFE,""A^VOVDERFUL     WOMAN," 

*"a    terrible    secret,"    "a    mad 


MARRI  AGE,"     ETC. 


•  ; 


<Si 


NEW    YORK: 

G.  UK  Carleton  &  Co.,  Publishers,  ' 

LONDON:    S.   LOW,  SON  8t  CO., 

— ~    UBCCCLitiLKli  


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CONTENTS. 

r  :o.' .    , 

«Arr...  NORINE'S    REVENGE. 

I.— T«o  BackEyesandtheir  VVork                   ^  '*"!! 

II.— A  W  se  Man's  Folly '" '  '  *  "     J^ 

III.— Mr.  Laurence  Thorndvke ......' '^\ 

IV.— The  Lawyers  Warning \ . . ,'.  ';""'• "^ 

V.—"  I  will  be  yoiir  Wife  " '. 

VI.— Before  the  "Wedding ' ^ 

VIL— The  Gatheriiig  Storm ••••••• •••     09 

/IIL— Fléd •••••••     70 

IX.— "Mrs.  Laurence"...  ^ 

X.-"AFoQl'sfaradise".'. ' *°^ 

Xr.-Gone ' *°9 

XII.-The  Xruth .'.".'.'.*.'.■.".■■.■'.■ '" 

XIIL— Mr.  Liston's  Story. . .  *^* 

XIV.r-A  Dark  Cqmpact .'.".'.'.ï.*.'.':'.'.'.' *  " '^^ 

XV.—"  A  Fashionable  Wedding  "... \^ 

^XVL— "  Hi.s  name  is  Laurence  Thorndvke  ". ,2 

XVIL-A  Letter  from  Paris ^ i^ 

X VIIL^After  Fow  Years .'.'." .".■.■.'.■.'.' ['/'/^ [J 

^Y V  "'m^Î'T  t^  ^°^'  ""^^  *"  ^^*™y  they  firsVmakë  mâd  ".',  JJ 
aX.— Nonne's  Revenge ' , .  ■    ^ 

XXI.-" The  millsof  the  god^  grind 'slowW/but  Vhey  gn'nd  "* 
exceedingly  small 21e 

vï!îî'""!!T''*'  ""^  °'  '''*  Transgressor  is  hardi"'  V.V..Ï.Ï.V.V'  22c 
XXI|L—"Jen-4y4Ciasedmeiy >^ 

\  .  '    ' 

\ 


«' 


:«■' 


l  ^■ 


vi 


CONTENTS. 


'^    "SIR    NOEL'S    HEIR. 
OtArm.  /-       . 

I.— Sir  Noel%JDeatnbed '. . .     '  '*?* 

II.— -Captain  Everàfd ,    ^^3 

in.— «  Little  May  ". . . ....  "  "l -S* 

IV.— Mrs.  Weymore. .  .........*;  ", ^^' 

"*■         ^—A.  Journey  to  London.  '•"  '  ' ^^2 

Vl.-Guy 283 

VII.— Col.  Jocyln. . ..;... .".'. 28S 

VIII.— Lady  Thetford's  Bail ...  """'•■• • 29g 

IX.— Guy  Legard.. .'.'/// 3°7 

X. — Asking  in  Marriage ••••••... 317 

XL— On  the  Wedding  eve. '  '  •  •  •  ••  -r  ■ , 325 

XII.— Mrs.  WejTnore's  Story '  ' ^^"^ 

XIII.-"ThereismanyasIip"   3-<f' 

XlV.-Parted • 354 

X  V.— After  Five  Years. ■  •  •  ■  3^3 

XVI.— At  Sorrento -" ••••369 

XVII.— At  Home ..'/.. 373 

• 376 

A   DARK  CONSPIRACY... 

.'  379 

FOR   BETTER  POR   WORSE 

"- 39J 


"'-■ê'' 


t- 


îT? 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


CHAPTEÇ  I.  ;- 

P 

TWO  BLACK   EYES  AND   THEIR   WORK. 

HE  early  express  train  from  Montréal  to  Port 
land,  Maine,  was  crowded. 

Mr.  Richard  Gilbert,  lawyer,  o£  New  York, 
entering  five  minutes  before  starting  time,' 
found  just  one  seat  unoccupied  near  the  door.  A  crusty 
old  farmer  held  the  upper  half,  and'  moved  grumpily 
toward  thewindow,  under  protest,  as  Mr.  Gilbcn.  took  the 
pl^ace. 

The  month  was  March,  the  morning  snovj^nd  blowy, 

slushy  and  sleety,  as  .t  is  in  the  nature  of  Ca<Kan  March 

mornings  to  be.     The  sharp  sleet  lashed  the  glEs,  peoplè 

shivered  in  muhitudinous  wraps,  lifted  purple  nosês,  over- 

twisted  woolen  clouds  arid  looked  forlorn  and  misérable. 

■  And  Mr.  Gilbert,  congratulating  himself  inwardly  on  having 

secured  a  seat  by  the  stove,  opéned  the  damp  Montreat 

True  Wiiness,  and  settled  himself  comfortably  to  read. 

He  turned  to  the   leading  article,  read   three  lines,  and 

never  finished  it  from  that  day  to  this.     For  the  door 

opened,  a  howl  of  March  wind,  a  rush  of    Mardi  r.iin 

whirled  in,  and  lifting  his  eyes,  Mr.  Richard  Gilbert  saw 

in  the  doorway  a  new  passenger. 


8 


m/^/JV£rs  REl^EXGE. 


\ 


■     The  new  passenger  was  a  young  ladv  pn^  .1, 
ady  was  the   prettiest  young  ladv    m,  ^Ït       '  ^"""^ 
;      ">  that  first  „.on,ent,  he  had  f ver  s^en  \^"'  ^°"^'^'' 
She  was   tall,  she/was   ^lîm      iT 
long  loose,  curi;  bl/k  hair  f.Tr  ""u'   ^'''''    »^^  ^^'^  ' 

wideearthholdlSfehestoorlthr      '    l   ^""^^  ^^^^  ^^  the 

and  going  in  the  yU^JJ^^^  ^  ^  --"é 
brown   eyes  glancine   lik^   fi,  ^^ce,  the   luminous 

réticules,  and  holdins  a  Hffl/k.    ..        '    ''^'"«««s,   and 

and  beauty     Onlv  T^T.  .  «ecommodalion  of  youth 

Gilbert,  r^  up  'Ld  Std'  "'°"«''-'^?^  «'^''"^ 

.offe,«i  bis  seat'^;o  the  y!:"'',:^''  "V-^f^-of  course, 

smile  it  was  what  ,  J-  u.^-   ,  ^'^        '  smiled— what  a 

dimpled,  b/idi^he  t  ,t«  re°'  rt '' ^''°"^''- 
world,  hesitated,  and  spoke  "'"''  '""^''  '»  '"« 

ou:t'nratrt'"'Br"'"'^"^"^'''  «'•  «^  »  <"=-•«• 

"Monsieur  ^^U    do^^rw^,"^  "'ob!'-'''  "°  P'-^"" 
emoiselIe,by,aking,hisseaT"  ^'    ""'    "'^<' 

"Monsieur  is  very  good.    Thanks." 

.entiers  c'a^ttrr ;;%rsrr';r '" ''■'" 


T- 


•À^ 


TWB  BLACK  EVE  S  AND  THEIR  WORK. 

"  Monsieur  can  sit  on  the  arm  of  the^eat."  suggestsllie 
young  lady,  glancing  up  with  a  pretty  girl's  glancerr^alf 
sh)^  half  coquettish  ;  "it  is  so  ver^  fatiguing  to  stand." 

Monsieur  avails  himself  of  the  offer  immediately,  and  ^ 
findshe  .s.n  an-excellent  position  to  examine 'thatveiy 
charmmg  face.  But  he  doe^not  examine  it  :  he  is  not  ono 
of  your  hght-minded,  mustache-grov^ing,  friyolous-héaded 
youths  of  three-or-four-and-twenty,  f5  whom  the  smilftig 
face  of  a  pretty  girl  is  the  most  fascinating  object  under 
heaven.  •  ^  °      ■* 

Mr_Gilbert  casts  one  look,  only  one,  th^n  draws  forth 
l  ,^''"' J^^'^"^"   a"d    buries   himsélf    i„   the    leadiflê 
article.      The   last    bell    rings,    the   'whistle    shrieks,! 
plunge,a    snort,   and    they  are    rushing    madly   ofï   in- 
to   the   wild    March  morning.      The   young  lady  look>^ 
about  her,  the  grumpy  farmer   is  between  her  and>^ 
windQw  the  window  is  âll  blurred  aâd.blotted:  MTcil. 
bert  is  fathoms  deep  in  his  papei*^    She  gjVes  a>r£  sigh, 
then  hfts  her  small  dog  up  in  her  r^ap,  ^  JC  an Tn^ 
mated  conversation  with  him  in  French.V/Çrollo  u^der- 
InT^hr\   a/''"'^'  ^^^*-"ïy-t  a  Word  of  English,^' 

alf/Thif '#?''^  ??''  ''^^  "^^^"^  sagaciously  t9  U  ' 
ail./  The  farm1r%oks  asfc^nce,  and  grunts  like  one  of  his  ' 
own  pigs;   the   lawyer.from   behind   his   printed   sheet 
finds  the  words  dancing  fantastically  before  his  eyes,  and 
■  his  brain  taking  in  nothing  but  the  sweet-socAën  fooHsh 
little  prattle  of  mademoiseUe  to  Frollo.     i^ 

He   is^ahirty-five  years  of    âge,  he  is   a  hard-headed. 
lard  working  lawyer,  he  has  a  species  of  contempt  fbr  al 
Wen.  as  bundles^f  nerves  and  nonsense,  fashLfand 
toolery.     Hô   is    thirty-five;    he   has   liêver   âsked    anv 
^womanjojMoyUnn  m  his  4ife,  he  looks  W^^ 


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10 


NORmÉ^S  REi>£NGE: 


■      «•-men  and  cféve   woln  h?    ^  ^  »«>re-haridsom^ 
,  -n«s,,ho  cleveœsToTherjVa; ''"-''■'••''''=  '>^"* 
.       .-S">a.ed  Jegal  puUes  b^.'ne  .'^ «,l  ^"!'!  "-.r": 

looks  at  this  liiile  Fre  '  h  r        ,•        ^"  "  î*«^"  «""  <>« 
has  never  feit  i„  ?„„i;        ^^"^*«""=  "''h  an  interest  hé 

beaù,ieshe'haV^::'3"f,:„:T°'  'f  ''""^'"  ^^"  ^°"^ 
^    -nothing  more  ^  ■  ^'""P''  <:"'iosity,  no  doubt 

,     pies," he  .hougi,,,  .^oZZ      "T  ,'"**'  ^"^""^  "f  Na- 
-   tnesi,niIari4yTo.ha,^i!°     "'""'' S°W'="l>air.     I  hope 

ou,wardrcsiwa„ee!,;"^""P™P"P"^<>"endswi,h  ,he  ' 

■  »":abrd™;^.rhes'i„':;^o''"?^'  '""  ^"■""'-  ?"««« 

•  Ihat  piquant  profile  those  Zl       ,1  fa,r 'drooping  fa 
black  eresses  fallin  '  frl  K    ^^1*^''«'  -"d  the  ripkg 

'  hat«s..r™med  w"?h  cr^e       l'î         ""'^  •""•  «^"e 
dingy  biack.      ■  "P"'  ^'"'  ">'  g^^'-l  figure  wote 

■  "wh^e^s'shetoLf;-  ^!;"'  f»"''''  ^ims^lf  «ondling  l 
Andthe,  cof^l^    ^"^.'°'•»">om  is  she  in  moumingf- 

hin.se.furar::rbakr;:"7'*'r^-''^p""'<' 

W  F^n'^h  baTbIe  ;'  Tl^"'  "*"°""'  "<"  '"■    The  ' 
«Hgnonne  face  ca,«  be  wfef  Wm^'^'t  '"^'  *«  """ 
"d  blotted  it  eut  -  "  '""  ""•  *«  P'in'ed  page. 

..    ■  4  / 


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TlrO  BLACK  :eyES  AND  THE/R  WORK. 


,4 
11 


Ihis; 
wa? 


^  -e  ,s  mgcli    too  young,  an^-yes,  too  pretly  to  be' 

•        (.ends  «.Il  meet  her?  Very  imprudent  tp  allowa  chiid  lue 
^     ^h.s  to  t.ave.1  alone.     She  hardly  looks ^ixt^n.»' - 
,       H.s    intere||^;fâtherly,   brothçrly   of    course,    in 
handsome  ^ildwas  increasing  every  moment.      It 
something   net   to  be   explained  or  comprehended.   '  He 
liad  heard  of  such   imbecility  as  "  love  'at  first  sight^ut 
was  .t  hkely  that  he,a.man  of  fîye-and-thirty,  a  la^er. 
.  V  Uhout   an   ounce  of  "  sentimentality  in   his  composition 
^      «hould   make  an   idiot  of  himself    over  a  French^  Cana- 
'l>enne,  a  total  strahger,  a   bread-and-butter-eating  schoôl-  ' 
fr.rl  at  h.s,timetbf  life.     Not  lik^ly.     Sh^  interesied lim' 
^        as  a  pretty  picture  o^marble,  Venus,  or  other  w6rk  of  art 
might— just  that.  "*•  v  '     ,  * 

He  did  not  addr^s  her.     L,-f^vyers  are  not  bashful -as  a  • 
»>'%.      Mr.    GilbWt   M^s    not   baiihful    individually,    but 
-  somethmg,  for  which^he  knew  no  name,  held   hirrf  silent 

>i^.  If  that  grumpy,  over-grown  farmer  were  only  out  of 
the-way,  h.e  thought,  instead  of  sitting  sulkily  there  star- 
ing  at  the  falling  rain,  he  could  no  doubt  find  some- 
thmg  to  say.  j      ■ 

Fate  favored  him,  his  e^il  angel  "cursed  him  with  the 
rurse  of  an  accomplished  prayer."     At  the  ^ery  next  sta- 
lon  the  surly  hi^bandman  got  u^p  and  left  ;  and  the  mis- 
.       tress  o^  FroUo,  movitig  close  to  the  window,  lifted  those 
two  orb<i^f  wondrous  brown  light  to  the  lawyer's  grave 
thoughtftri  face,  and  the  sweet  voice  spoke  :  ', 

•             "^Vill  monsieur  résume  his  plaàe-nbw?"     "  - 

,         '  Monsieur  rjeeded  np  second  bidding.     He  .resumed  it.    ' 
^hrew  aside  his  paper,  and  opened  conversation  in    Uie  ' 
r        nsuaLorilUant  and^rigin^tJ  way  :   -^ '     - 


-V:.^ff 


tV 


12 


JVO/i/JVE>S  J^E  VENGE. 


The  sonn>seems  to  increase-don't  you  ûmk  sol 
Abominable  weather  it  bas  been  since  March  came  in  Zl 
no  hope  of  its  holding  up  to  day."    '  '    ""* 

m,'!-^^'  ^f  '  "'^"^'^"'■'"  mademoiselle  answered,  with  ani 

spinted,  one  can  see  nothing,  and  one  does  like  so  to  sJe 
the  countiy  as  one  goes  along."  -  ^ 

1'  )î'f  ''^^  f  i"g  f^'-  ?  "  the  lawyer  inquired. 

Oh,  veryfar!»    Mademoiselle  makes  a  littl^  r.lr. 

gesture,  with  shoulders  ar^d  eyebrowsandhand  '^  toee^^^ 

erto  express  the  immensitv  of  the  distance  ^  ^' 

Agréât  way.     To  Portlkiid,"  with  a strong  accent  on 

the  name  of  that  aty.     "  Monsieur  knows  whefe  Portland 

^^onlliC^r^^^^^^.^^-^-^^^^ 

pret^tp"^^'^'^^  her  pretty  head,  and  pu.es  her 

*' Monsieur,  no— lamgoing  home.»  W 

"  Home  ?  But  you  are  French  "  f 

is  Z"e    pLT."'"'  '''u"'^  ^^^"^^'  ^^^"   -y  home 
ej^tm  '  "  Jd  UndeT""''  hâve  beeome  dead,"  the  brown 
2  Vh:  1    ^  ^"^^^  ^^"'^  ^"^  A"«t  Mathilde  hâve  seven  • 
of   Aeir  own,  ^d   are  poor.     I  am  going  to  mamma's 
relatives,  mamma  was  not  French.»  mamma  s 

;;  No  ?  »  Mr.  Gilbert  says  in  sympathetic  inquiiy. 
.        No,  monsieur.     Mamma  was  Yan-i^^,  a  New  End  and 
^ady,  papa  French  Canadian.      Mamma^  friends  d  ^  ^ot 
wish  har  to  marr^  papa,  and  she  ran  away.     It  Is  five  year, 

IVjr,  and  two  years  after  the  good  God  took  him  too. 


•-%%.; 


•       > 


^W^. 


4»ife.',. 


TIVO  BLACK  EVES  AND  THEIR  WORK.      ,3 

The  tearful  brown  eyes  look  cWn'at  her  shabby  black 

d  ess.        Monsieur,  b.holds  I  wear  .nourning  still.     Th.r 

^     Uncle  Louis  took  me,  and  sent  me  to  school,  but  Ui,clc 

PoliT  "TP''  "  '  "^°^^  ^°  mammaVbrothers  in 
Po.  land,  and  they  sent  a  letter  back  andmoney,  and  told 
me  to  corne.     And  I  am  going-Frollo  and  m;." 

She  bends  over  the  little  dog,  her  lips  quivering  like  the 
hps  o£  a  grieved  chUd,  and  the  lawyPs  middl'aged 
heart  goes  out  to  h  A  a  great  compassion.  ^ 

Poor  -httle  lonll^  child  1  "  he  thinks,  watching  the 
sweet  overcast  face:  "^ope  they  will  be  good  tJher 
those  Yankee  fnends."  Then  aloud.  "  But  you  are  ver^ 
young,  are  you  not,  to  travel  this  distance  alone  ^  '^       ^ 

I  am  seventeen,  and  I  had  to  travel  alone,  there  was       • 
ZZZ^^'^'-'    ^^^^cleKent.il'lmeetm:     , 

;;  You  are  Mademoselle  Kent  ?  "  he  s^ys  with  a  smrle.    '"' 
Bour^o'nT"'''""'  ^'  "'"^^   ''   Bourdon-Norine   Kent 
goilg  "'  ''"  ''''  '"'"  ^°^^  ré^^S,^  ^hom  you  are 

There  are  three-two  uncles  and  an  Lnt.  Thev  were 
verykmd.     I  liked  them  vçry  much  »/  ^^ey  were 

Bourdon™''./'';'  """^  ^'  ^^^^^  ^"  y^"^  "^^  h^"»^  Misa 
Bourdon,  the  awyer  says  gravely.  "  Permit  me  to  offer 
you  my  card  If  you  ever  visit  New  York  I  may  meet  you 
agam— who  knows  ?  "  »^«- /wu 

The  young  lady  smiles  as  she  reads  the  name. 

Ah-whoknows?    lamgoingoutasgovernessby-and. 

What  a  fratUc,  irmoc^dyM^^i^.thm^t  Mt.  Gr= 


l 


^•l. 


44 


^ORINE^^  REVEIVGE: 


t>ert,  looking  down  at  fho        -i- 
.        giris  „f  he.  !,e  Z,"  be  bi?  '""""'  '"^^  ^  ""*- 

«./face,  and  tells^e  her    ,,^^.1"  '"'l  ^"■""  "P  '" 

=hie,d  her  £.„„  .h:  h l^^p'     f^^ Y"'  '^"•'^""^^  '"= 
Power  I  shall  always  be  haonv  f„       !'       ^  ''""<'  ''"  *") 

Mademoiselle  Norine  Kenf  R..//"  , 
grave,  génial   face    with  s^f     T   T.  '^''^'^  "P  ^""^^  ^^^ 

h-  shecouidn;trvVdid":;trr^v'^"'^^ 

.      man  to  be  trusted-a  ^ooH  n^"        '.        '^^  ^^'*  ^^  ^^s  a 
.honorable gentleman    "^  '"'  '  ''"ï^"^  ^"-"^  and  an 

The  tfain  flew  on. 
As  thç  afterrtoon  wore  aw;iv  fKo    * 
trees  rocked  in  ,he  high  w^T'^Lj  ,1°™  '"r^'^i     The 
against  the  Windows     mTs^^  V     u    ''''"  ''"'  t"^" 
'atchel,  an  English  nove    a„^  L       ^^^  ^  "°^^'  '»  "" 
of  this  work  af  innervais  anH       ,",  "f  "^'^^  "  '*»'  P'Ses 

Froiio,  and  she  fefreshed  S  rb^'lf  7"'=''  .^^"""^  •» 
and  dyspepfc  confec.ionei;       B„t  allt'/'  ^"'^"''"'^^ 

anf be  dirrrir^tt  "7  •"  "'=  "--^  --. 

""-iy  beyond  his  ^omT    b  ^s  oTHe^'ItT"'"^'  """ 

mg  '■S'>"^overher,andshiedeTherf™n,  Jm     ^k  "''"^ 
eyes,  with  jealous  care     ivi    .       '"™"'  »"  <«her  tn.ile    , 

•bout  .his  fTenchgirl''     ^^""'  *"  "">«  charmed  hi,„     I 


TIVO  BLACK'  EVE  S  A  'VD  THETR  WORK.      15 

He  could  no  m6re  hâve  told  you  then  than  he  could  ever 
hâve  told  you  afterward.  It  was  written,  it  was  Kismet  : 
h,s  fate  had  corne  to  him  as  it  cornes  to  ail,  in  unlooked- 
for  form  She  looked.  the  poetic  simile  came  to  the  unpoet- 
ical  mind  of  the  lawyer-like  a  folded  rose,  the  sweetness 
and  bloom  yet  unbrushed  from  the  leaves 

Mademoiselle  did  not  awake  until  the  train  stopped  • 
then  she  opened  her  eyes  bevvildered.      But  Mr.  Gilbert' 
.  gathered  up  the  boxes  and  bundles,  drew  her  hand  unde. 
his  arm  and  led  her  out  of  the  cars,  and  up  to  the  big  noisy 
hôtel  where  they  ^ere  to  stop  for  the  night.     Miss  Bour 
don  took  her  supper  seated  beside  her  friend,  at  the  long   ' 
crowded  table,  and  was  dazzled,  and  delighted.    It  was  al 
so  new  to  her;  and  at  seventeen,  novelty  is  delight.    After 
supper  her  protector  gave  her  into  the  hands  of  a  cham- 
bernjaid,  told  her  at  what  hour  they  started  next  morn- 
ing,  bade  her  good-night,  and  dismissed  her. 

Were    Richard  Gilbert's   dreams    that    night  haunted 
by  the  vision  of    a  dark,  soft  face,   two  Lk    tender 
eyes,    and    the    smile    of     an    angel  }    Richard    Gilbert 
only  knows.     But   this   is  certain:  when    Mademoiselle 
Bourdon    descended   the    stairs    next   morning   he    was 
standing  at  the  dining-room  door  awaiting  her.  and  his 
cahn  eyes  ht  up,  as  few  had  ever  seen  them  %ht  i^  his  lif^ 
He    led   her    mto   breakfast,  and    watched    her   heartv, 
school-girl  morning  âppetite  with  pleasure.  ^Then  there    • 
being  half-an-hour  to  spare  before  the  train  stln'ed  h" 
p^posed  a  httle  stroll  in  the  crisp,  cool  sunshine  that  Lad 
followed   yesterday's   storm.     It   was  very  fair    there   i„ 
t^^at   lovely  valley  in    Vermont,  with  the^Tl  ^umai^; 
p.ercing  the  heavens.  and  the  silvery  l.y.c  fl,,hinrr  î 
inirrors  beîow.  *^ 


i^^u*.  .  S-l 


l^^ 


i6 


^o/i/Aers  SEn-A-ai. 


"'  .!".!'/'•  »«'«  o'  a  familiar  face       ^     "'"'  ^"^  "''"■"« 
^nere,  monsieur — therp  f     tt     i     ^ 

"■^"■e.     Oh  I  ,ake  me  to  him  1       "'P-    "«  ''^  lookin| 
Mr.  Gilbert  led  M^s  1^      °""'  P''^"^»'" 

i"g,midd,e-agedcolTn,t" trr°.;'"'^  "'"^r-look- 
top  to  toe.  ^"'^"  stood-"  Do„„  E^st  •■  fron, 

•'  I  We':i:?  '"'""'  '■°'*"^  -•  "o'O  hand,  eagerlj, 

And  then,  heedless  nf  fi,» 
moiselle  flu^g  bo.h   L  at,X'' ,°' ^'^^  «"^^"-  -de- 

both  cheeks.  '^^^''  ''™.  smick— smack,  on 

Wey  !  bless  mv  «umiI  i  ;♦  • 

«cla.med.ex.rica4wis  ,"  ^"r"'  '^  T  ^"''=  '*-''^" 
««  of  ail  knowin'.  You're  „..  '  ^ '•^<"'' and  growed 
"ft  g,ad  ,o  hâve  y»»,-  h  ^  T''  "^  •'^"'  '"«  I'™ 
"ke.  You  ain't  a  look  "/  .  '  ù  '"""  P""  ««"her', 
Gustave  Bourdon  ail  o^r     A„d\  °"5'-"°'  "<«  ""'- 

zj^'  '--".--arcrirnTea:; 

to  introduce  (hem        ^^'      ''  *''"  »""-<'on    hastened 

"This  gentleman  is  Mr  rni,.  . 
ve^  kind  to  me  ail  the^ay     r  ."^  ïf  "    "'  "^  "«" 
"ave  done  but  for  him.  l^e  has  ^    '"""  "•■«  '  «'■""W 
«mce  we.Jcft  Montréal.  "  "  """^  °'  ■»«  evet 


(.ï,^'    -  ft    J    ''.I  ^^l  --    / 


ni^O  BLACK  EYES  AND  THEIR  WORK.      ,; 

,   «us  Utle  çrl.     Corne  along  and  spend  the  day  vvuJ  u.  at 
my  place;  Kent  Farm.  "         -  j'     uiiu.ai 

"  'f hanks,  very  muph."  the  lawyer  answered  ;  «  I  regret 
tnore  than  I  can  say/  that  circumstances  r  nderT 
|.leasure  impossible.  I  must  be  in  New  York  to-„ 
.  but  he  very  next  time  I  am  in  Portland  f  shall  cmainh 
av.,  myself  of  your  kind  invitation.  Miss  Bourdon  u„1n 
ln.it  time  cornes,  good-by." 

He  shook  hands  wilh  her,  and  saw  her  led  away  by  her 
uncle   wuh  a  feeling  of  strange,  yearning  regret     A  two 

C.»  lang,  ând  they  were  off.  Once  she  looked  back  to 
sm,le,  to  «-ave  her  hand  to  him  i„  adieu.  One  h^o  e 
ghmpse  of  that  brunette  face,  of  that  rare  smile.  "f  th^  e 

acute  angle,  and  she  was  gone. 

^  Gone.    A  blank  seemed  to  fall,  the  whole  place  turned 

OC  nappj .    She  is  so  pretty-7^  pret^  1" 


/■SÀMÈe'^A.irM.-.i- 


.       CHAPTER    II. 

A     WISE     MAN's    FOLLV.  ^f 

IJ"'e.o„.  and  cher  le^ni  J  r     °"''  """^   C""»  U 
.  Her  bright,  seventeen-yeaToM  f,      , 

.tomes,  looked  athim'i„  the  D„ml  ""T™"^'  ■^'yas-dust 

was  m  Jove.  ^^  ^^"'.  '"  short,  Mr.  GiJbert 

Mr.  Gilbert  found  that  business  renn ;    ^  u  •         ""^  ^  ^"^^«n 

«trappers  in  the  office  .hou,h'h?t    ""m'"'  '°°'  ""^^- 
done  witliout  his  Personal  suLlf^  ""''y  ^^"  hâve 
reasonedotherwise;anrwithTverl""^   but  Mr.  Gilbert 
the  région   of  the  hear     pacL.'\""'^^"''^^'°^^hout 
slarted  for  Portland,  Me      ^  ^'^  Portmanteau,  ancj 

--  Vor.   la^er  .al.ecrkt^--r  ^^ 


\ 


:^jA  J.&ÉKi.rt  ,  "      "* 


That  important  business  whiVi.  v:  a  v, 

".Mes  was  transac.ed  in  a  œ  "ot  „f  k''''°"^'''  '"'"'  '"  -"^"^ 

Richard  Gilbert  i„  his  1  A'         '         "' ■'-"''^"  "^"^ 
and  rou„d-.opped  s tf^t  ^ C'Lr'^"""*"''  ^"'' 

-.isfied  with  .he  rL'     Whe„hat:^""  •'?  ^°  """ 

.       ".outh  and  ej.es  ever  sho™   s"  plai^  'T  \''"  "°""'' 

bald  forehead  ever  annearL  ?       '^  z'*'^"  '■^<'  ^'^  '»". 

everloolcedsodreadS;  n1;:/:'"r''^-"'"»  "ad  he 

priggish  in  his  own  Ie"al  eyês»  ih^'?'  '""  P''"'*"S  »« 

He  hired  a  light  wa^onTnd  A  '      r  ""''"•' ■ 
Hve^  .tatie.  an'd  in.rdThe  '^^  tZ  p   ""=  "^-^ 
Farm  was  three  miles  distant   h    ,  ^^™-      Kent 

dusty  road  ,ay  hke  a  strip  ^l-, tt"''  """'"'  "»"=- 
green  fields.     The  haymake,^  we»  ,t       T"  ""^  golden, 
wassweet  with  perfume  the  fielt  f k    f'^'  "'^  ^"'"""'^  ^i,  ' 
■^03  sang  in  .^  bra,:;^^  ^ a'^^^'T''- «>ved.  the  / 
chttped  until  the  drowsy  air  wasal^r'   /.  ^rassboppers 
,     ""-beautifuUhanall/th   sn^',t,'^"f  "beyondall. 
^parkling  sutf^Pretty  houses,  ï„  Ih  ^i' /^'^  ""''"  <*« 
evetywhere;    and  more  than  one  M^ï^-f  ^^™-  «"=■*      = 
herrake,a„dlooked„prderTer.^'',';""'='leanedo„     ' 

this  thoughtfui  Judge  rode  bv  H  t""""™''  "«  "^ 
3lowly  tha,  itwas  nearly  an  hour  blr  k'"^ ''°"'y' «> 
tetinarion  and  drew  up  a.  Z  tl  ^^  ?l  '°'"^''«'  '"^ 

Had  he  been  wise  to  come  î    Wh  /        '  ^^""-     " 
this  child  of  seventeen°to  him  ,    m   ""^  !"''  '"""'«  «•>'• 
Vouth  turns  ,o  youth,  'as  flôweL  Zt  ~""  '"'  ^™'  "«' 
■^ E„s_^ MSM  soaie  stBhrait  jounj  farmer.  ' 


N.  ^ 


20 


mniNErs  ÂEyE.XCE. 


-.>^ 


Kent  Fam  at  las'  U^  ^T.'  ''"''  """  ''™  >"■'■'  ' 
on  «he  summi.  ot  a  grée"  Ipi^''  ''°"'  "^  ""-er  houae, 
•eather-beaten  farm  house  tf  *^  '""^""="='  ""  <>W  '«■' 

«g  oid  place.  i,s  gain  s  ol„?H  ^"""-  '^  "•^™- 

'o-d  garden,  „i.h  roirtashet  I' r"'"!'"^  ""** 
gnarledoldapp/etreêsmSd     "      *.»">''°*.    and    bfg 

of  Ihese  crooted,  blossominri  f  ''""<=''«».  under  one 
e'ed  in  her  shiniL  hT  aX^  ^'^'^  =""«êht  tan- 
Ken.  Bourdon,  ref^n™,!    ■"'^"°""'='-'=.  -  «orine 

,  «'ter!'H:r,:d„"r°°''"''=  .•n.eres.i„g-.be 

a  moment,  and  then  -  to  th.  ^    \  ^°^'  '"  <'™''<  '<>' 
things  earthly,  „;„  Rj^h  j°  ,'^.f,  ""J-  <"  his  death,  until  ail 

joy,  tte  flash  of  reco^ti»;  tW,"/'"'?"  *'  "4  °' 
*hich  she  flung  aside  I^er  bll^  ^  '^  °^  »elcome,Iith 
both  hands  outetretach  J?  "  '^""8  'o""*  «im, 

"Monsieur!  monsieur  f '»    fk« 
«.onsieur,  hp„ gla/Ta™  to  t^  jr' ™'^'=  "''"•     "^'^ 

«he  was    glad   to    Jf  i,  •         ,    ^''  "P  '■"<>  hi»-    Ves, 

^«.adness  /f  ^iV    4™' l^^r  tr    *'    '■""""'■« 
brother.oldandirrave  v«k  I      ?       °  ""  ="  indulg,  „t 

tog  .hose  handsXiw  tn  ^' **^- «'"->''« 
"rew  no  such  ni»  distinction!  '^"'  '""'''"S  '"« 


^ 


V 


1  '  '**tî*"  *" 


IVISE  MAN'S  kOLLY 


21 

"Thank  you,  mademoiselle.     Vou  havA  n«f      •.    * 
gotten  me,  then,  after  ail  ?  "  ^  "°^  ^"'^'  '°'* 

the  first  of  June,  and  Aunt  Hester  is  nevJ  so  h! 

when  she  lias  companv      You  \.JI  ^^^  ^^ 

"w  II    r-         "l'^^^y-     If  OU  have  corne  to  stav.  I  know  " 
Well,  I,n  not  sure    about    that,  Miss    rT,/^  r 

.nay  remain  a  weel*  or  two,  certainîy       New  YorW 
habitable  after  the  first  week  of  Tuïv  K  .  r  "  "°^ 

the  Preble  House         T'i/  ^    ^/  ^f  ^  ^"^  ^^°PP'"g  at 
pass  o.  yo.  gooruncLrhrs^iraU;'  "  ^  ^  ^^^^"^^^  ^^  -^■ 

str:^n^^:L^^"£^:-^-^^^ 

dull,  and  it  will  be  a  second  ij  ^ere^pleasant  but 

li«.e  Ne.  York  s^cU"    ■  """'"'^^  ">  ™'-"  -  ^th  a 

he  did  „o.  4  .„  Me'  ^"^■"^"  «-'"  -*  -  admiration 
..e'ést;d'";i:'bi;ds''S!e  f!.  «'"'%-''  •-«  «o-rs.  fte 
===^..yy5y^  -Jiooody— nobody,  and  it  is  duII. 


n 


kdM 


r^ 


#iv 


fïit». 


■^■É&jP^i  *  c    \  -^^^dâ^&Li  •» 


l       ^**<.**.l5 


» 


WR/Jves  REVENGE 


tri,h,  a^d  gay  and  Fr/„ch     FrTnth  H.  î  rVl"  ' 
hcre,  not   but    that  I  like  V^nV,  ^"  ^'"'''« 

born  Ifke  me  and  I  nT'n    ï         "'''"    "^    anybody 

custard  pies       AnH    «,^     •    -^  ,,    ^^/'^  ^"^  eat  so  many 
H'c.-..      Atia,  monsieur."  with  th^  o  ..     •'^ 

coquettish  glance  be  ren,en,bered  rlel  .mT::^"''^  f^" 
In.  not  an  angel  don ',  tell  bim,  plfasl  I  If.  "t ^"^ 
hm  undeccived  for  the  world  "  ''"  '  """^ 

■.rietub';;:'nLî:"'reb''"''"^'^"'°'-"'-  ■"^■•'« 

Reuben  Kph.  T  ^^  ''^"'^s  "«w.» 

ap.pe:"Hf;:.rat°:;;bi:ï;rec'^^^^^ 

quy  with  a  strange  gentleman     Th  ?   "™'">'  <=°"°- 

"«ed  h.m,  and^aL  Wd  a^onc!    t"""'  '^  ""«" 

had  e'enam'os,  gi>n  you  up    Hol^°;  "'"  ^""■^'  ""»  ^     ' 
York.     Howairyou     Wre  Si-.     "•*'••«'>'' "P'» 

talkiù' «•  ye  continuai.    Corne  iZ  '  ^^'  '  ''™  ' 

»is^r  Hester  .i„  be  hgbt"^:,™  t^se^e^Pr^""^  '"•     "^ 

cu.rarp:rrSe' St  -'"•  r"^™"-  ^  ■ 

Ea-st  „obIen.en,  indeed        •    a  l::?' ™'"^''i  '^-> 

-.o.,i„totbe.d:xxrto'r:u;i^^^^^^^ 


.  ^ 


n; 


^  WJS^'MAN'S  FOLLV.  3, 

and  took  a  seat.    A  pleasant  roof<  but  was  not  evcrythin^ 
about  Kent  Fann  pleasant,"  with   two  large  western  win      y 
dows,  through  which  fl^e  rose  and  golden  light  of  the  lèl 
drorp„.g  sun  streamed  over  thè  stbre  carpet,  thexane-seat- 
ta  chairs  the  flowers  in  the  cracked  tumblers,  and  while 
delf  pitchers.    l^aces  of  Nprine  were  everj'where,-  the 
,  piano  m  a  corner,  'the  centre-table  litt/ed  with  books 
papers,  magazines    and   scraps  èf  neecSe-work,  the  tAvô 
cananes-^ging    in     the    sunny    Windows,    ail    spoke 
of  taste,    and  girlhood.,  The're  -  were  white  muslin  éîir- 
tains,  crocheted   tidies  on   every  chair  in   the  rç^ôm  »a 
Iounge,.coveredwith  cretonne  kï  a  high  state  of  glaze  and  ' 
gaudy  colonng,  and  the  sçent  of  the  hay  fields  and  the 
h  ac, over  ail.    No  fifth-avenue  drawin^-room,  no^atimhung 
silyer-gUt  reception-room,  had  ever  looked  one  half  so  ex? 
quipite  m  this  metropolitan^ntleman'sjjrofessional  eyes. 
^^'f^^^^^^^^^'^^^mgXnUx^^  and  the  scented  roses, 
stood  a  tall,  slim  girl,  in  a  pink  muslin  dress-and  where 

*  T'^.ï!  '''°'°^"  ""'  brocatelle  could  eipbellish  any  room  as 
)She  did  ?       y        ^^  ]  -  " 

Uncle  Reuben  wèhtjn  search  of  Aunt  Rester,  and  re- 
hirnedwith  that  lady  presently;  and  Mr.  Giloert  saw  a 
bony  httle  woman  wifh  bright  eyes  and  k  saffron  complex- 
'on.     Miss   Kent  welc,ome3  him   as  an  old  friend,  andx 
pressedhim  to«stay  toteà."  ,  V 

"It^  jest  ready,"  she  remarked,— a  maiden  lady  was 
^unt  Rester,— «  weVe  ben  waitin'  for  brother  Joe,  and  he's 
lest  corne.  There  ain't  nothing  more  refreshing,  I  think 
myself,  than  a  niqe  €up  o'  hot  tea  on  a  warm  day." 

Uncle  Reuberi  seconded  the  motion  at  once. 

"We  can't  offer  you  anything  very  grafld— silver  spoonj 


=Aiid  seeh-^-as  3wget  at  them  âîr'1ioreT^;^iïî  s^^ 


ê 


sL-^»'i-.t  ■*     -•        ..    i     .        ,         '    .     ^        -        , 


m. 


/     ^t\ 


3-» 


W/!/A£-s  i^£y£X.cE, 


^^ 


«nd  Hester's  ,  casier  h,  j 

»'"^«  I  go  and  wash  uX''     '*""y'  J"»  '«ch  him alo^' 

Miss  iJourdoB  obeyed.'     I&r  r:tu       j. 
«•a'  pressing,  i,  .^  ^^^  b„  '  .^         ""  "°""ï''"-«  ai' 

■'  'S  truc,  biii  ,he  plateS  „,  "     ,•  ^'    *'°  *''''"  te«pbdiL 

""'.of  i.,  could  hâve  shotn  a         ,"°  """='  '"  Main?^ ' 
.         -'mer,  »ore  dyspeptic  b°  Tui's  ^1"  ""''""'"'•  '"'^" 

•       bernes  a„d  ,ea,  ho,  bise  i.and lu "'.'•"''  '«"'y-  «^a« 

-a  heap  P'easan^  ,han  .hftiL^^y  "  =«  h-dn-,  ough,  ,o 
too  fine,  and  ow  ways  mav  iv.\^"      °"'  '""«m  ain't  none 
,•>«  /  recton  Nor.^'^nTiiel;!""''"?  '""  "'d'ashioned 
confortable  ef  yoTstay.»      '"  *""  ■"^«^»''  Pre..y  tol'be,' 
-Comfortable  r  »»        . 
He  looked  across  at  fK  ♦  /  ^        ' 

faint  objectioiT.  ^"*  «till  i?|mum,ufed  some 

tne  counternarf  ^.r  rt'^     '      '    ^^'^  ^^tfmrJMlt'i  ^ 

^^^^'^^^•"---'«-^td^ttr 


,<^ 


=^ 


■-ri;4F>. 


1, 


'/ 


A  WISE  M  AN' S  FOLLY. 


n 


and  feed  poultry,  and  pick  strài.  berries,  and  impïove  your 
mmd  m  a  thousand  rural  ways.  You  shall  swing  me  whei» 
Uncle  Joe  is  too  busy,  and  help  me  make  short-cake,  and 
escorl  me  to  îquiltin'  .bées,'  and  learn  to  rake  hay.  And 
I— ril  sing  for  you  wet  days^  and  drive  you  ail  ovef  the 
ncighborhoodrand  let  yl^  tell  me  ail  about  New  York  and 
the  fashions,  and  the  stores,  and  the  théâtres,  and  /fhe 
belles  of  Broadway.     Of  course  you  stay.  " 

Of  course  he  stayefd.      It  is  so  easy  to  let  rosy  Ups  per- 
suade  us  into  doing  what  we  are  dying  )x>  dp.     He'stay- 
ed,  and  his  fete  Was  fixed— for  good  or  for  evil—fixed 
,That  very  night  bis  portmanteau  camç  frpm  Portlâhd  and 
the  "spare  room  "  was  bis.  ^      i     ,  ' 

.  Supper  over,  Uncles  Reuben  and  Joe  lit  their  pipes,  and 
weât  awaytqtheirfields  and  their  cattle-Àunt  Hester 
"^Jearedup,"  and  Miss  Bourdon  took  possession  of  Mr 
Gilbert.  She  wasn't  the  least  in  awe  of  him,  she  wai 
only  a  bnght,  frank,  fearless,  grown-up  child.  He  was- 
grave,  staid,  old— is  not  thirty-five  a  fôssil  âge  in  the  eyes  of 
seventeen  ?_but  vénérable  though  he  was,  she  was  not, 
the  least  afraid  of  him.       ,  .  ,  ««t 

She  led  lier  captive— oh,..too  'èirilling,  forth  in  triumok 
to  see  her  treasures-sleek,  ^ell-fed  cows,  skittish  poniesL^ 
big   horses,  hissing   geese,  gôbling   turkeys,  hens    and 
chicks  mnumerable.  .^le  took  à.pleased  intere^t  in  them 
all-calves  and  coïts,  çliickeris   ànd  ducklings,  ganders   ' 
and  gobhlers,  Rstened  to  the  histoty  of  each,  as  though 
he  had  never  listened  to  such  absorb^ng  biographies  in  ail 
his  life  before. 

How  rosjrwere  the  Ups  that  spoke, Ww'eiger  the  sun- 
JV  face  uplifted  to  ^s,  and  when  was  there  a  timè  that   * 

Heliked 


Wisdom  didnot  faU  do^fn  and  worship  Beauty  ? 


* 


.d*t=^ 


^ 


•i- 


SW^'^vïJïH  \>  t  ,J^ 


I  ' 


Vi' 


/ 


26 


iVORIAes  REVENGE. 


toftinkof  her  pure  and  sweet,  absorbed  in  Wse  inno 

<ruel.yo£ftebig,  cruel  worTd  "^  '"^<'"='»  "■«' 

-  ::tte  su,,  came  ou,  and  .he  moon  sailed^u^^ele  "  ^1 

IlL  a"„d"th"e  ,'"  "^  :°  «'*•  ^"'  Miss  Bourdon  couW 
Wk^  and  the  lawyer  hstened  to  tte  silvery,  silly  prattle 
with  a  grave  smile  on  his  face  ^  "^ 

■     her"  7Ser«  °  V  T  ""  ""■  ''"S"  'i"««™'.  to  tell 
ner  of  life  in  New  Yoric,  of  tlie  opéra  and  the  tlieatres  »„H 

snl^™:^".'"'""''"'  "^'^""*«  ''»'"  «he  cried,  "to  hear 
ôn^sX'  "?;«T"''  P'*y^'  ""'"<»'  «"ch  pêopel    « 

Books— romanhc,  and  beautifijl,  and  full  o£  change     if 
one  œuld  only  be  richand  a  lïdy,  Mr.  Gilbert  r^"    " 

«.o^bt^rsXdtteîtt  *d  "^'^  ^  ^ 

i^:rsœeS"iu;^"^?;r-*--'"«'« 

.dmirèd?^-  g„°ïj  ;°  ,t'  ^'^dy-beautieul  andhaughtyand 
theon<.rl  lit  diamonds  and  laces,  to  goto 

.ht^  K  '  ''""'"•  ">  '"<■  the  fashion,  and  to  be  wo" 
^pped  by  eve,7  „ne  one  met  I  But  wha  i,  t^e  Zli 
wishing,  it  nerer,  nev«r,  never,  can  be." 


-■//    / 


'  ^ 


Sl^  '■.,î^^;''''V>!p.'îtW"--.-|^Y'=T"  f'i^"  >-l'--Tf'. 


A  WISE  M  AN' S  FOLLY. 


27 


■  Il 
**Can  it  iiot?      I  don't  quite  see  that,  although  the 

ladies  you  are  thinking  of  exist  in  novels  only,  never  in 

this  prosy,  work-a-day  world.     Wealth  is  not  happiness— 

a  worn-out  aphorism,  but  true  now  as  the  first  day  it  wâ» 

uttered.    Great  wealth,  perhaps,  may  never  come  to  you 

but  what  may  seem  wealth  in  your  eyes  maylbe  nearer 

than  you  think — who  knows  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her,  a  sudden  flush  rising  over  his  face, 
but  Norine  shook  her  black  ringlets  soberly. 

"  No,  I  will  never  be  rich.  Uncle  Reuben  won't  hear 
of  my  going  out  as  govemess,  so  there  is  notl^ing  l^t  but 
to  go  on  with  the  chicken-feeding  and  butter-making  and 
novel-reading  forever.  Perhaps  it  is  ungrateful,  though, 
to  désire  any  change,  for  I  am  happy  too." 

He  drew  a  little  nearer  her  ;  a  light  in  his  grave  eyes,  a 
glow  on  his  sober  face,  warm  words  on  his  lips.  What 
was  Richard  Gilbert  about  to  say?  The  young,  sweet, 
wistful  face  was  fair  enough  in  that  tender  light,  to  tum 
the  head  of  even  a  thirty-five  year-old-lawyer.  But  those 
impulsive  words  were  not  spoken,  for  "  Norry,  Nony  !  " 
piped  Aunt  Hestei's  shrill  treble.  "Where's  that  child 
gone  ?  Doesn't  she  know  she'U  get  her  death  out  there  in 
the  evening  air  "  *      '^         ' 

Norine  laughed.  , 

"From  romance  to  reality!  Aunt  Rester  doesn't 
brfieve  in  moonlight  and  star-gazing  and  foolish  longings 
for  Éhe  impossible.  Perhaps  she  is  right  ;  but  I  wonder  if 
she  didn't  stop  to  look  at  the  moon  sometimes,  too,  when 
she  was  seventeen  ?  " 

It  was  a  very  fair  opening,  giyen  in  ail  innocence.  But 
Mr.  Gilbert  did  not  avail  himself  of  it    He  was  not  a 


-^iadynnan  "  iniiHy  sënsë  ôîThë  woM.    TTp  to  aie  prèF 


V 


WA^J»Ùh,aMî^îé.  'i.iï^*.- 


vBl-l.ïft.-'- 


28 


t 

mRlNE^S  RE  VENGE. 


«o  hun,  and  he  waiked  by  her  ïd^         ''^"  ^"d  Sanscrit 

sh-'out.  Nonne  wenttofte  ni  ^  "-«"-ràe  j4,„s,y 
audience  witli  music  «h.  i  '^ .  '  ^iî''  ™'«rtaiSl  her 
"ad  h.d  p,en.y  :rpia' o fS J^'^^"' '-"M*  Z 

-s-.g  for  them  in  ftVvoice  1,     ^'^ "  **"""•«'•    «he 
«  Ml,rich  con.ral.o  "  ""'"''  ""  "'«"onne  face, 

New  York  lawyer  went  up  tobLlff  «'""''  "  """  *' 
nngi-g  refrain  in  his  ears^  "  '^'  "'S^t  witi.  itj 

E'»obom,,eu.to,„d„™     '"'~*' 
Et  ses  beaux  yem." 

"  Ah  r  Richard  Gilbert  thoucht  «  w.n 
fing  and  extol  the  beaux  yeu^jt  '   t    ™^^  *^  '^^'^^^^ 
5  those  bright  eyes  arro^!^  1'  f'  ^°""^^«-e„, 
don's."  """^  ''^  *s  lovely  as  Norine  Bour- 

Practica.  man  of  1|,IX ^^h„         «'d.    He,asober 

«capedu„scarred,hadfaUe;r     ^  '°  *^  P'*»»"'  had 
f  ea«  in  i,s  n,ost  ™^g*:  '  ™"™  «  J»^'  '<>  a  juvénile 

«ers  areveorapttobcSltn       ^^  J"™""»  *«,r. 
He  wa,  in  love  witl,  a  ^   ^S  S"**" '"'"»'"'«>«»• 

""'"  "'  seventeen,  a  foolish 


P^ 


'  ■É.'^i&^MS^CtiL.  iié^f  i&,  »V-JlfllÈ**i'ïn..: 


A  WISE  MAN'S  FOLLY. 


29 


little  French  giri,  who  looked  upon  him  with"  prédsely  the 
I  same  affection  she  feit  for«Uncle  Reuben. 

"What  a  fool  I  am,"  the  lawyer  thought,  moodily,  «to 
dream  a  child  like  that  can  ever  be  my  wife  ?    A  sensible, 
practical  young  woman  of  seven-and-twenty  is  nearer  youT 
mark,  Richard  Gilbert.     What  do  I  know  of  this  eirl 
except  that  she  has  silken  ringlets   and  shining  black 
f  eyes  and  ail  sorts  of  charming,  childish,  bewitching  ways. 
I  will  not  make  an  idiot  of  myself  at  my  âge     I  wiU 
go  away  and  forget  her  and  my  folly.     I  was  a  simpleton 
ever  to  come."  .    ^ 

He  kept  his  Word.     He  went  away  «ith  his  story  untold. 

He  bade  them  ail  good-bye,  with  a  pang  of  regret  more 

keen  than  any  he  had  ever  felt  before  in  his  life.     Perhaps 

he  httle  brown  hand  of  mademoiselle  lingered  a  thought 

longer  than  the  others  in  his  ;  perhaps  his  parting  look 

mto  those  beaux  yeux  was  a  shade  more  wistful.     He  was 

going  forgoodnow-to  become  a  wise  mar,  once  more, 

and  he  might  never  look  into  those  wonderfuLdark  eves 
more.  ,    «"«.  cyc» 

Norine  was  sony,  veiy  sony,  and  said  so  with  a  frank 
regret  her  middle-aged  lover  did  not  half  like.  He  might 
be  unskiUed  m  the  mysteries  of  the  tender  passion,  but  he 
had  an  mward  conviction  that  love  would  never  speak 
such  candid  words,  never  look  back  at  him  with  such  crystal 
clear  eyes.  She  walked  with  him  to  the  gâte  :  herXn 
curls  a  stream  in  the  July  breeze. 

«Willyou  not  writç  to  me  sometimes?"  Mr  Gilbert 
cou Id  not  help  asking.  «  You  don't  know  how  glid  I  shaS 
be  to  hear  of— of  you  ail."  ^^ 

Mademoiselle  Bourdon  promised  readily 

"Though  I  don't  Write  veTy^QodietteiV'aheremarked-"- 


\4'tf  «i,  ^'•1S««-S*« 


.^•~;-,J;' 


4fe\i>*tlLt  .-«iiSSii'",:^'  A'^i  V'iKiff 


r 


30 


{fORÎNBPS  REVENGE. 


composition,"  by  thTlZl     t  ^   '*«"''«''«"  Englisl, 
loved.»  "°  '°™^  and  one  who  is 

■n  English  compositio  °S     t"^''"-    'r'»  ««-^S 

ht  :r'""^  ■"'«'"  S"  Œe  ti^r"  ■»*  ^-»^ 

And   tirae    went  on^  ?    T  *"  ^''^n"- 

back  :  he  s*.n^  u  ^^'  °^ab-colored  life     w«     renard 
,  ne  sent  her  books  anA  ^    •  ^^  ^^ote  her 

ineij  the  Ides  of  dart  \r         ,       '  ^""  ^as  hannv 
P-^r^  bii»,  „,,  e„ded"'dt;r ■"'  "■"*'  -"  »"  S 

2"^.  y  *i.hout  .„;  ,'^"„-*-î  PO"  mark  oea«d  al. 

Jly.  he  turned   cold  «  the  ba« 


Kîx^Sk,%  /Aisoi*   4 


A  IVISE  MAN'S  FOLLY. 


31 


thought.    But  what  was  it  ?.   The  last  week  of  Novembei 
brought  him  his  answer.    Very  short,  very  unsatisfactory. 

"Kent  Farm,  Nov.  28, 1860. 
Dkar  Mr.  Gilbert— You  must  pardon  me  for  not  replying  to  your  last 
letters.  I  hâve  been  se  busy.  A  genUemaç  met  with  «n  accident  nearly  threa 
weeks  ago,  close  by  our  house,  broke  his  left  arm,  anâ  sprained  his  right  anklew 
I  hâve  hid  to  take  care  of  him.  Aunt  Hetty  has  so  much  to  do  aU  the  timo 
that  she  could  not  We  are  aU  very  vireU,  and  send  you  our  best  wishes.  I  am 
very  much  obliged  for  the  pretty  work-box,  and  the  magazines,  etc.  And  I  am, 
dear  Mr.  Gilbert,  with  the  most  afifectionate  sentiments, 

^  .      "  NoRiNB  K.  Bourdon. 

.;."/•  h~^^  goitleman  is  greatly  better.    He  is  with  us  still.    He  is  ver» 
■ice.    He  IS  from  your  aty.  N  " 

In  the  solitude  of  his  légal  sanctum,  Richard  Gilbert, 
with  frowning  brow  and  gloomy  eyes,  read  this  blighting 
epistle.»  His  worst  fears  were  realized,  more  than  realized. 

There  was  a  gentleman  in  the  case.  A  gentleman  who 
absorbed  so  much  of  Miss  Norine  Bourdon's  time  that  she 
-  could  not  answer  his  letters.  And  he  was  "  greatly  bettét 
andhe  was  from  your  city.  Confound  the  i)uppy!  He 
was  young  and  good-looking,  no  doubt  ;  and  he  must  meet 
with  his  accident,  at  her  very  door  ;  precisely  as  though  he 
were  enacting  a  chapter  out  of  a  novel.  Of  course,  too,  it 
was  his  arm  and  his  ankle  that  were  smashed,  not  his 
villainous  face.  And  Norine  sat  by  his  bedside,  and 
bathed  his  forehead,  and  held  cooling  draughts  to  his 
parched  lips,'and  listened  to  his  romantic,  imbécile  de- 
lirium,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  She  sat  up  with  him  nights;  «he 
read  to  him  ;  she  talked  to  him  :  she  sang  for  him.  He 
could  see  it  ait. 

Mr.  Gilbert  was  a  Christian  gentleman,  so  he  did  not 
swear.    But  I  am  bound  to  say  he  felt  like  swearing.     He 
jumped  up  ;  he  crushed  that  poor  little  letter  into  a  bail; 
-fee^strodeup  and  down  his  office  nke  à  cagëd  (Tegal) ^oT 


% 


■..  iiyfiL^'.i 


32 


"^^^^^^•s-^Wa^/^. 


Sudd"  ,  ^  •'^  '  "*"  not  been 

^*e  train  whirl/»rî  1,-  j 

«e  siept  that  ruVht  in  'p    . 
How  familiar  it  al]  was  •  ï,        . 


i^ 


Slj44*i.^l  ^  ."' 


A  WISE  M  AN' S  FOLLY. 


33 


^was  four  by  the  lawyer's  watch  as  he  raised  the  latch 
of  thWarden  gâte,  and  walked  up  the  snow-shrouded  path 
There  Wdthe  gnarled  old  apple  tree,  with  its  rustic  chair* 
but  the  kee  was  leafless,  and  the  c^iairempty.  Doors  and 
Windows  h^  stood.wide  when  he  saw  them  last,  with  sun- 
shine  and  sWimer  floating  in  ;  now  ail  were  closed,  and 
the  Decembekblasts  howled  around  the  gables  There 
was  no  one  to  be  seen,  but  the  red  light  of  a  fire  streamed 
bnghtly  ont  throiigh  the  curtains  of  the  keeping-room. 

He  went  slowly  ^the  steps,  opened  the  front  door,  and 
en  ered  the  hall.  l^W  door  of  that  best  apartment  stood 
half  open,  hght  and  Wmth,  voices  and  laughter  came 
through  Mr.  GilbertVused  on  the  threshold'  an  in! 
stant,  and  looked  at  the  ^ture  within. 
.  A  very  pretty  picture. 

Norine     s^^^^^^      '^'"  ^"V^^^   ^^^   ^^^  ^e  saw 
•rZI'    w     Tr^^'""^  aloud\he   lovely  story  oiLalla 

"k  hal  M?  ';""''"  "^^T  *^^«'  --  -hich 
fter  black  haïr  fell,  and  in  the  fantaàic  firelight  how  fair 

the  dark,  piquant  face  looked,  the  ^  eyes   were  b-^ 

Ke^L'-^'  -^  ^^^  -^t  w  w^h:  oirsotd 

whowa  "ve:^:   ,î\'^^^^  «Pr\ned  ankle, 

a  great  start.^  ""^  ^"^^'^  ^^^^^^^^  ^^n^  gave 

He  knew  him. 

His  worst  fears  were  reahVpH     w^ 

^r -rr ^-"  -"    -ee^rCl 
=M!^^Ih*.ia«  was  ,hm  „d  pste,  ïuï  wken  waf  Xr 


Wu^^mf»  wi,£  W"i4 


•^ 


afault  în  the  eyes  of  ,     ■,, 

-'^  brown  hair,C/f,^J';''~;  '^"  "^'^  '•»  »  dark 

-rW.    S-e,yach„:L;;et;e     "'"'^^''=  "«■"«""' 

tumed  s,cker  „iu,  jealous  fear  '    '  *"'  ""'t  hardly  hâve 

Laurence  Thomdvke  "  i,r,i. 
"en  i„  ttewide  worU;  wtoel^fr!!"  '"^"''fj'  "<"  «H  the 
Thomdyke  hère  V  '  ''^"  *°«""e  has  «n.Laie^ 


\ 


/^ 


> 


■ 


CHAPTER  III. 

MR.  LAURENCE  THORNDYKE. 

HE  Httle  dog  Frollo,  curled  up  beside  his  mis- 
tress,  was  the  first  to  see  and  greet  the  nèw 
corner.  He  rushed  forward,  barking  a  friendly 
greeting,  and  the  young  lady  looked  up  from 
the  book  she  was  reading,  the  young  gentleman  from 
the  face  he  was  reading  at  the  same  moment,  and  be- 
held  the  dark  figure  in  the  doorway, 

Norine  Bourdon  sprang  to  her  feet,  blushing  violently, 
and  came  forward  with  outstretched  hand.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  evpr  seen  her  blush — like  tliat — the  first  time 
her  eyes  had  faljpn,  the  first  time  her  voice  had  faltered. 
She  might  be  glad  to  see  him,  as  she  said,  but  ail  the  old, 
frank,  childish  gladness  was  gone. 

"I  hâve  taken  you  by  surprise»"  he  said,  gazing  into 
her  flushed  face  and  shrinking  eyes,  "  as  I  did  once  before. 
I  get  tired  of  New  York  and  business  very  suddenly 
sometimes,  and  you  know  I  hâve  a  standing  invitation 
hère." 

"  We  are  very  glad — /  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr. 
Gilbert,"  Norine  answered,  but  with  an  embarrassment,  a 
restraint  altogether  new  in  his  expérience  of  her.  "  We 
missed  you  very  much  after  you  went  away." 

The  young  man  on  the  sofa,  who  ail  this  time  had  been 
calmly  looking  and  listening,  now  took  an  easier  position; 
Hand  spoke  i- r —     ^ 


■< 


/?>  \ 


-\ 


36 


^pHfJS^E'S  REl^ENGE. 


'-'i'igi  centuries  ae-o    t  ei,     i»     ""'^^^a  i]\^  power  o# 
ancl  so  did  Mr  n„  '     ^'  Thorndvke    -t  • 

happv  to  c  .  ^^  patients— few  kn^T   f   ^    ^°^  ^^^ 

,  ^"deed,  I don, dolu atT? """"" ">«•" 

*«  my  talents  don't  lij  T^m  '■!'"''™  «^nvincel 
b'p     i^     ?     A^aurence  Thornrfvt^    •         ^'  ^^^^  ^hat  I 


V. 


•    -A 

■4        V 


■  * 


À'tk.-%?.-M.ft-  ,■■■-. 


fN 


'•^J 


,     MR.  LAURENCE ^THORNl^YKE,  ,- 

*'  I  shall  go  in  for  sculpture,"  responded  Mr.  Laurence 
Thorûdylce,  with  the,  calm  consciousness  of  superioç 
geMus.  "  Other  men  hâve  made\ïame  and  fortune  by  art, 
and  why  not  I  ?  If  my  hypocondriacal  adopted  uncle  Would 
onlyshell  out,send  me  to  Rome,  aftd  enable  meto  study 
the  old  masters.  I  ha^^e  the  strongest  internai  conviction 
that— "  •     ■    . 

"That  you  would  set   the   world  on    fire    with    your 
genius.     That  you  would  éclipse  the  Greek  Slave.     Np 
doubt— I  hâve  known  other?  to  think  so  befpre,  ând  I 
know  the  sort  of  *  famé  and  fortune'  they  made;     How  da 
you  corne  to.be  hère  ?  "    Very  curtly^nd  abruptly,  this. 
;    ••  Ah  !— thereby  hangs  a  taie,"  with  a    long     tender 
^  Iglance  at  Norine;'    I  am  the  debtor  of    a  mosC  happy 
,  accident.     My    horse    threw    me,^and    Miss    Bourdoi», 
lappening  along  at  the  moment,  tumed  Good   Samaritan 
and  took  me  in." 

'M  don't  mean  that,"  Mr.  Gilbert  said,  sti%  •  «  how  do 
you  corne  to  be  in  Maine  at  ail?  " 

"I  beg    your    pardon.     Tom    Lydyar^l— the  Portland 
L  /Lydyards,  you  know— no  I  suppose  you  don't  know,  by  • 
the  by.    Tom  Lydyard  was  t6  be  married,  and  invited, 
me  over  on  the  auspicious  occasion.      Tom's  a  lîàrvard 
man    like    myself,   sworn  chums,  brothers-in-arms,    Da- 
mon  and   Pythias,   and  ail    that    bosh;   and  when    he 
asked  me  down  to  his  wedding,  could  I~I  put  it  to 
yourself,  nôw,  Gilbert,  could  I  refuse  ?  I  eut  the  shop,  I 
turned  my  back  on  blue  pills  and  chloral,  I  came  I  saw,  l'— 
mademoiselle,  may  I  trouble  you  for  a  glass  oMemonade  ? 
Vou  hâve  no  idea,  Mr.  Gilbert,  wliat  a  nuisance  I  ara,  not 
being  able  to  do  anything  for  myself  yet.' 


^ 


s       ^'. 


"N-, 


y 


5  ï»te^k|i2&Jfeçj .  s  ::  - .  ■  ~; .;: 


y 


W'-  ■■'■ 


38 


1 


"c,  wny  t cames  ai;  th^  •      ^   "^  vouno-  an^ 

■   »"  ov£r  and  done  »,>h      „     ''^  '"/  means-th,,    ~ 

P)ea.an.  Voice  of"^  '^ ff"  ">.  "•en,  both   inZf"'"'    ~ 
'«cl'e  with   hiVrf  'ay  sileni  and  slrot.^^     ■^• 

shy  ail  ,lruT'""'*«''^to  endure     o.       '' """«'most 

•fceside T        '  *  '  *""'  »n  in/initelv  1?  ""'  ^■"nnier 

„,    *  I^urence  Th„n,d„^     """^'y.'-Vpyfacel  She  sat 

»«dof  speech  „h,„„,,;^^,f^*«^„^e„<H.«i.    ^^,, 


\ 


■i" 


s 


MR.  LAURENCE   THORNDYKE. 


39 


I  X 


\    Vv 


r* 


Supper  ended,  Mr.  Thorûdyke  was  wh'eeled  back  to 
his  post  in  the  front  room  beside  the  fire.  Norine  iiever 
carne  n'ear  hinni  ail  the  rest  of  the  evening,  she  sat  at  the 
litige  piano,  and  poured  out  her  whole  heart  in  song. 
Richard  Gilbert,  full  oH  misérable,  knawing  jealousy, 
-understdod  tho^  songs  ;  perhaps  Laurence  Thorn- 
dyke,  lying  with-.  half-clpsed  eyes,  half-smiling  lips, 
did  too.  They  were  old-fashioned  songs  that  the  lawyer 
had  sent  her,  favorites  of  his  own  :-  "  Twere  vain  to  tell  thee 
ail  I  feel,"  and  "  t)rink  to  The  onty  with  thine  eyes."  Yes, 
the  nieaning  of  those  tender  old  ballads  was  not  for  hinj., 
It  was  maddening  to  see  Laurence  Thorndyke  lying  there, 
with  that  conscious  smile  on  his  lip^  ;  he  could  endure  no 
more — he  arose  with  the  iast  note,  abruptly  enough,  and 
bade  them  good-night. 

"What!  so  early,  Gilbert  ?"  Thorndyke  said,  looking  at 
his  watch.  "  What  a  dickens  of  a  hurry  you're  in.  You've 
got  no  clients  in  Portland,  hâve  you  ?  and  Miss  Bourdon,  is 
going  to  sing  us  half-a-dozen  more  songs  yet." 

Mr.  Gilbert  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  this  flippant 
young  man.     He  turned  his  back  upon  him  indeed,  and 
explained  elaborately  to  Uncle  Reuben  that  it  was''  im- 
possible |for  him  to  remaîn  longer  to-night,  but  that  he  ■ 
would  caU  early  on  the  morrow. 

"  He  ik  very  much  changed,"  remarked  Aunt  Hester, 
thought^ly;  "don't'you  think  so,  Norry?  He's  nothing 
like  so  pleasant  andfree,  as  he  used  to  be." 

"  Particularly  grumpy,  I  should  say,"  interposed  Mr. 
Thorndyke.  "  '  Pleasant.  and  free  '  are  the  Iast  terms  I 
should  think  of  applying  to  Richard  Gilbert.  Not  half  a 
bad  fellow  either,  old  Gilbert,  but  an  awful  prig— don't 
you  thinkjiOy  Miss»  iourdoa  ?  " 


'1  :; 


'^eM^    »  ^'•c*'^''*.^  ^^^^-I^V.Iï^.    .   k 


40 


M 


'^('^^^'E^SJ.EyEJVGS, 


Jt  was  bnVhf  f r«  ^ 

■^'^  tr  '^-^^  ^.  ''""'•  "^  "^^-'^  » 

■'^"y  One  but  i^u 
•^ewasthinkfngbitte^^^Vrr^  " 

dignitary  been  "  keen^n  ^'^^^^'^°P  «^  Canterburyhad.L. 

.  Laurence  mrndyke.     4t7dt''^^-  -^^^^oldstory  to 

that  P^l^'"  ^""^'^'  °f  New  York     vii%'T  ^"^°^^«^e  of 

tûat  ?  What  eJseis  needed  m        '     ^"^  ^^^  has  he  but 

^^'^^  i^his,  for  good  or  fl        ^  f""  ^^'"^"'^  heart/^  AnÏ 

is  the   Prince  PK  ""^  ^^^'  for  ever  and   «  ^ 

^nnce  Charminp^  nf  h^   r  •  ""  ^^er.     H*» 

P^ighted  wife  awai^^^^  ^'"    ^^^    the  truth    th^f 

Thorndj^ke.»  ^^^^  *"to  the  power   of  Laurence 

Yes,  she  was  in  his  péwer    f«     u 

.„ ■:.      ■  ., j . .  \-.    '     .  ..  '    . — .-....— — — ■■ 


\ 


^f'ifX.te'^.  >A%'*j«^.*^i."'îfe'J^ 


MR.  LA  URENCE  THOR^D  YKE. 


41 


city,  to  receive  her  usual,  eagerly-looked-for  package  from 
Mr.  Gilbert.  It  had  been  dark  and  windy  from  early 
morning.  As  the  afternoon  wore  on,  the  sky  grew  darker, 
the  wind  higher.  She  got  her  bundle  o£  books,  visited 
one  or  two  stores,  one  or  two  friends,  and  night  had  fallen 
before  she  turned  old  Kitty's  head  towards  Kent  Farm, 
A  faint  and  watery  moon  made  its  way  up  tlirough  the 
"driftsof  jagged  cloud,  and  the"  gale  howled  through  the 
Street  as  though  it  had  gone  mad.  It  was  a  Lonely 
and  unpleasant  ride;  but  old  Kitty  could  hâve  made  hêi 
way  asleep,  and  Norine  sang  to  herself  as  she  drove 
slowly  along.  They  were  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  o£ 
the  house,  when  Kitty  pricked  up  her  red  ears,  gave  a 
neigh  ofalarm,  and  shied  from  some  long,  dark  object 
lying  motionless  across  h^r  path.  Norine  bent  over  and 
looked  down.  There,  she  saw,  lying  on  his  face,"  the 
prostrate  form  of  a  mân. 

Was  he  drunk,  or  was  he  dead  ?  She  was  out  in  a 
twinkling,  and  bending  above  him.  There  was  blood  on 
his  clothes,  aftd  on  the  dusty  road.  She  turned  his  face  over 
until  tiie  pallid  moon  shone  upon  it.  Dead,  toall  seeming, 
thè  eyes  closed,  llfe  and  consciousness  gone. 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  Mr.  Laurence  Thomdyke  was 
lying  in  the  best  bedroom  of  Kent  Farm,  with  Aunt  Hester 
and  Norine  bending  over  him,  and  Ùncle  Joe  scudding 
along  on  horseback  for  a  doctor.  Ail  their  efforts  to 
bring  him  ouï  of  that  fainting  fit  were  vain.  White  and 
cold  he  lay  ;  and  so  Norine  Bourdon,  with  a  great  pity 
in  her  heart,  looked  first  upon  the  face  of  Laurence 
Thomdyke. 


l-iiiiiiliV.'/-'-  .'  .---  i^ti,:iXt:--:  ..C*- -liSiA  - 


'^KTr'. 


-^ 


ÇHAPTER 


IV. 


THE  LAWVER's  WARNING. 


^^'  ternoon  of  the  „ext  dâv  k  .     '  ^^^^  ''"  ^he  af- 
dow.  do»rn  ft  Ih  ^^  ^'aring  from  .h!  u     P"^"* 

"""atanSover»;    '"h";''^^  °'^'<'=''  dinne  Te  "?""« 

°f  <=omT'^7J'^.'=''"^'-after„oo„:„i,h  ^  ,, 

"'ew  up ïo^^r-'y  *--°ugh  the  ,eade„  at  f  '''"■^'^ 

"«-.twaa  ,00  ,a,e.    """ '*"'°"' and  the  day  g„  ty^ 
•«rtopenedthe  gateanJ?     ^'^"'""dfastefas  Mr  f  •. 

-•*-o.e„,HforrfiXtr::r-  ^^^^ 


"-t 

^ 


*     ■••, 


X- 


■*■ 


THE  LA  WYER'S  WARNING. 


43 


and  a  slight,  graceful  figure  seated  at  one,  sewing.  The 
brown  tattling  stems  of  hop  vines  twining  around  it,  like 
sere  serpents,  made  a  framework  for  the  girlish  head  and 
fair  young  face.  AU  the  floss  silk  curls  were  bound  back 
with  scarlet  ribbon,  and  the  luminous  black  eyes  were  fixed 
on  her  work.  They  saw  the  tardy  visitor,  however,  and  with 
a  bright,  welcoming  smile  she  sprang  up,  and  ran  to  open 
the  door. 

"  How  late  you  are.  We  thought  you  were  not  coming 
at  ail.  I  hâve  been  looking  for  you  ail  day."  She  held 
out  her  hand,  far  more  like  Norine  of  old  than  last  night, 
and  lea  the  way  back  into  the  parloir.  There  on  his  comfort^ 
able  sofa,  by  his  comfortable  fire,  reposed  of  course  the  ftve 
feet,  eleven  inches  of  Mr.  Laurence  Thorndyke.  Mr.  Gil- 
bert gave  that  inValid  a  nod  several  degree^  icier  than  the 
éléments  out  doqrs. 

"Ah,  you  hâve  comeJ  I  told  Norine  you  would."  — 
Norine  !  it  had  corne  to  that  then — "  I  know  you  to  be 
one  of  those  uncompromising  sort  of  characters,  Gilbert, 
who  never  break  their  word.  Hâve  you  your  cigar  case 
about  you  ?  I  should  like  a  smoke." 

"  Miss  Bourdon  is  présent,  Mr.  Thorndyke." 

"  Se  she  is — icfc  which  Allah  be  praised.  But  Miss  Bour- 
.  don  is  the  most  sensible,  as  she  is  most  charming  of  young 
ladies.  She  gave  me  carte  blanche  âges  ago  to  smoke  as 
much  as  I  please.  Didn't  you  Norry?  She  fiUs  my  pipe, 
she  even  lights  it  when  tliis  confounded  shoulder  twitches 
more  than  usual." 

Richard  Gilbert  set  his  teeth  with  inward  fury.  To  sit 
hère,  and  listen  to  Laurence  Thorndvke's  insolent  famihar 
ity,  his  lover  like^".Norry,"  drove  him  half  wild.  :* 

^rhave  nota^  cigar  case,"  h&  answered,  more  and  more^ 


■/"' 


.      *"«■%;  «and  if  I  h^rf  .^      ^      .    '"'■ 

-O*.  not  for  weeks  v«    •  '        T^°" 

,  <trc  aii  unworthy  Mr  /-.u     f "^"^ant  movemen^c 

overmvarf,„„    .        "'^"'youwift;.      •         ^  beiieve 
fe"o«  ough  °    K  î"  ''  '«-«d-tZ  nt!  TT  °'  ^"""'"•'y 

'leaven  of  T      •    *'  *"<'  I  can't  h^lX-^  '"^  »™.  and 
"e  »ia  4  „,7^«  -e  y„„  laug^'^^f  ^-'^d  »i*  ail 


THE  LAWYER'S  WARNING, 


45 


fore  I  go?  "  -The  door  opened  as  he  asked  the  question 
and  Aunt  Hester  came  into  the  room. 

"  I  heard  your  voice  as  I  passed  through  the  hall,"  she 
sa^d.     "  Surely  you  ain't  going  so  soon  ?  ". 

"I  regret  I  must,  my  business  rèquires  my  immédiate 
return.  1  hâve  only  time  to  say  good-by  and  speak  a 
Word  to  your  brother.      Where  shall  I  find  him  ?  " 

"  In  the  stable,  most  lîkely.     l'il  go  with  you." 

"  Thanks.     Farewell,  Miss  Bourdon." 

Again  their  hands  met,  she  looked  perplexed  and  wist- 
fui,  but  she  did  not  urge  him  to  stay.  With  a  second  stifï 
nôd  tô  Mr.  Thorndyke,  the  lawyer  strode  out  of  the  room 
after-Aunt  Hetty. 

"  A  Word  to  her  brother,"  muttered  Mr.  Thorndyke  to 
himself  looking  after  them.  "  I  think  I  Hnow  what  that 
Ineans.  *  That  fellow,  Thorndyke,  is  a  spendthrift,  a  gam- 
bler,  a  flirt,  an  engaged  man.  Don't  let  him  hâve  any- 
thing  to  say  to  Norine/*  That  will  be  about  the  supi  and 
substance  of  it.  To  think  of  his  falling  in  love  at  his^  time 
of  life,  when  he's  old  enough  and  big  enough  to  know  bet- 
ter.  But  then  middle-aged  fools  are  the  worst  of  ail  fools. 
And  you  come  a  day  after  the  fair,  Mr.  Richard  Gilbert. 
Your  Word  of  warning  is  just  two  weeks  too  late.  I  owe 
you  two  or  three  little  grudges  for  your  espionage  of  the 
past,  and  for  two  or  three  little  games  blocked,  and  I  think 
I  see  my  way  clearly'to  wiping  them  out  at  last.  A  thou- 
sand  thànks  my  charming  littje  nurse."  Aloud  to  Norine, 
entering  with  pipe  and  pipe4ight  : 

" ^\'hat  should  I  ever  do  without  you  ?" 

Mr.  pilbert,  escorted  by  Aunt  Hester,  reached  the  stable, 
where  Uncle  Reuben  ?tood  busily  curry-combing  Kitty. 

"  I  want  to  speak  half-a-dozen  words  in  private  %q  you^ 


^s^'T'lt.*/'      j 


46 


r--^'^ 


( 


say  gpod-by,  now."  ^  "^"^^"^ss..  Miss  Kent 

*^ou    hâve    nr»f    t 
*«  I  «-int,  I  hôpé  y„"„T    ".^   ^^"y  long,  Mr    V        ' 

«Ifish  motive,    it  Vfor  "    T'  "  ""''"s^iid  r  hav! 

"  '"terest  in  lier  wlLTT'  ^"^  ■=*"  ''«■•dly  tafce  ,  / 

voice,  or  did  rH        ''«'"  »  'remor  i„  ,h.  1 
'•K.Va  Mef  a!^",    "."S""  ""'^  fancy  •„'*\;^*«.  «ea<fy 
" «'ai,  s  t>e1,.tt.r  "'■■"  '=-'^"         '  """"  '" 

your  nièce.    He  is  „2""""' """afe  coi»„,  ■ 
'Mcinatine     si  •        '  «""^  '  ">«•>,  he  is.T^?^"""'  '<" 

Kent  i/„     °^  "«^  °'  «'«=1'  men  al  T      H  "othin»  o( 
ReUe:i:„tw  .  '  "'  ^"'^'  '^ 

'"'t  "Ir-  »  oîface""'  ^  '""'''-  «--  in  i-is'  e,e  , 

*-'0  on,"  he  aaiA  ,  ^  *  ' 


/ 


THE  LAWYER'S  WARNmC. 


4; 


than — "  He  paused  again  and  averted  ht  fcce.  "  Vou 
know  what  I  mean.  Hç  is  handsome,  and  she  k  only  a 
girl.  She  will  grow  to  love  him,  and  he  cduld  not  mairy 
her  if  he  would,  he  is  already  engaged,  jand  unless  I 
mistake  him  greàtly,  would  not  if  he  coulL  Mr.  Kent, 
I  this  young  man  will  go  away^  and  Norine  vl^l^  be  neither 
the  better  nor  the  happier  for  his  coming."    / 

Hls  voice  was  husky.     Something  of  the  pain  he  felt 
was  in  his  face.     The  farjner  stretched  forth  and  caught 
I  the  lawyerjs  hand  in  a  hard  grip. 

"  Thanky,  squire,"  he  said  ;  "  I  ain't  a  man  to  jaw  much, 
but  I  believe  you,  and  am  obliged  to  you  for  this.  If  that 
youn^  jacknapes  from  York  tries  to  corne  any  of  his  city 
games  down  hère,  by  thé  Lord  Jehosaphat  !  l'U  lay  him 
up  with  something  worse  than  a  broken  arm  I  "  « 

"Can  you  not-  avert  the  danger?"  suggested  Mr. 
Gilbert.  "  It  may  not  be  too  late.  Send  the  fellow  away." 
"  Wal,  squire,  you  see  thât  mightn't  be  doing  the  square 
thing  4)y  him.  It  would  look  unpleasantly  like  tuming 
him  out.  No,  I  can't  send  him  away  until  the  doctor  says 
L.  he's  fit  to  go,  but,  by  ginger,  l'il  send  her  !  " 
1^     "Will  she  go?» 

Uncle  Reuben  chuckled. 

"  We  won't  ask  her.  l'il  fix  it  ofï.'  We've  some  cousir  s 
thirty  miles  up  country,  and  theyVe  invited  her  time  and 
again,  but,  sortehow,  we've  never  felt— Joe  and  me — as 
thoQgh  we  could  spare  her  afore.  It's  powerful  lonesome,  " 
I  tell  ye,  squire,  when  Norry  ain't  around.  But  now— l'il 
take  her  to-morrow  moming." 

.  "  Ths  best  thing  you  can  do.  And  now,  before  it  gets 
any  later  and  stormier,  I  will  be  off.  Good-by,  Mr.  Kent, 
Cor  the  présent*'       • 


*f\'. 


["aùst/a&iii/wA.-K!-  ',  *Sv 


fi 


48 


-  J\rORl/V£rS  HE  VENGE. 


"  Good-by  and  thanky,  squire,  thanky.     You'If  be  alone 
again  soon,  hey  ?"  » 

tr.  .T  °^  ^^^^  "''^''  ^^"^'  ^"d  good-by  to  you." 

îv  indM       k1  ^f  u^''  °"^«f  «ight,  then  walked  slow- 
room.    Mr.  Thorndyke,  in-  a  deep,  melodious  ténor  was 

cheéks  and  ghstenmg  eyes  of  light,  wasiistening. 

The  reading  ceased  at  the  farmer's  entrance  ;  the  spell  ^ 
was  broken,  and  Norine  looked  up.  T 

« ^^as  Mr.  Gilbert  gone,  Uncle  Reuben ?"  » 

"Yes." 

dvfe'  'xhi'  ^'*f  """^"f  g-^-îty»  regarding  y^ung  Thorn: 
dyke.  The  ^girl  saw  the  change  in  his  usually  gbod 
humored,  red-and-tan  face,  and  went  over  and  threW  an 
arm  around  his  neck. 

«  What  is  it,  uncle  ?    Something  gone  wrong  ?» 
No-yes.    Nothing  that  can't  be  set  right,  I  hope 
Where's  your  aunt?"  ^  ^    ^  ^ 

^J  In  the  kitchen  baking  cake.    Shall  I  run  and  call 

"No,  rilgomyself." 

He  left  the  room.     ^r.  Thorndyke  watched'îâzi. 
ItisasIthought,"hesaidtohimself.    «Mylabe  isuo 
•dangerous.'  What  bas  Gilbert  been  saying?  H^he  "ve^^^      ' 
ïfl^'"^^''   "^y  whole  interesting  bfography  ?^Has 

oeue  wonne,  and  so  hâve  I.    New.  let's  see  who'll  win." 


i* 
tv 


'ë 


THÉ  LA  WY^à^S  WARNING. 

^  Mr.  ;Kent  found  hi^^ste^  in  the  kitchen;  baking,  as 

.    Worine  had  said,  c^es  for  tea,  their  fragrant  Weetness 

perfaming  the  hot  air.     In  very  fe^V  words.  Re  repeated  to 

nep  the  lawyer's  warning.  .        \  • 

-  ;  We  might  aseen  itourselves,  Hetty,  if  w\  hadn'tbeen 

-.blinder than  bats.     l'il  take her  up  to  Abel   Werryweath- 

çrsto-morrow,andjustleave  her  thar  till  tiis  ere^chap 

"Willyo"  tell  her,- Reuben?"  Aunl  Hetfy  Ued. 
No  ;  I  kinder  dsn't  lilie  to,  soraéhow.  •  She'U  mess 
w,thout  any  telling  I  reckon.  If  I  ,old  her,  she  S^ht 
tel  h,m,  there  a,„.t  „ever  no  countin'  on  gais,  and  then 
he  d  be  after  her  hot  foot.  Least  said'S  soonejt  mended. 
Jes  caH  her  down  to  help  you,  Hetty,  and  keep  her  hère 

^"ging,  h,s  fine  talk,  and  good-lookin'  face,  he's  enough 
to  turn  any  gal's  head."  ^ 

\  <"  ve^'"'''^  ^"'"^  °^  ^'-  ^^^^'^^  '"  '^"  y°"'  R^^ben."' 

V^hey  looked  at  eich  other,  and  smiled.     Poor  Richard 

Çabert  1    Your^chenshed  secret  was  very  large  print  after 

■     -I^r'*  ?'^^^'^!'  ^^'  ^"'^  ^"^"^'  ^"^  sets  heaps  by  her  » 

"l?f  :h^T^"  ""'^^^  y^''  ^^^  ^'''  -'  --.  Hetty!" 
Heleftthe  kitchen  and^nt  Rester  obeyed.     Norine 

rr.  T"^r^.  fron^udUe,»  and  Mr.  Thorndyke-to 
ook  after  the  cakes,  to  mafce  tea,  to  roll  ont  the  short-cak^ 
^  butter  the  biscuits,  to  set  the  table.  For  onœ  Tunt 
Hester  turned  lazy  and  left  everything  to  Norine.  She  had 
notbreathingspaceuntilsupper  was  on  the  table 
After  supper  it  was  as  bad.  Contraor  to  ail  précèdent 
>stead  otgoi^ ^^^iano,  Norine  gorâDâslcerasocks   "" 

3 


-s;  5i 


5C  NORTNEPS  RE  VENGE. 

^tï    ^   '  "'^  '"'*'•  S°  '°  »">*  «  once."       •'^ 
Aunt  Hester  placed  herself  between  her  suest  anH  w 
versation  fallin^  flat   ww  o,;^^     j      "is  eitorts  at  con- 

By  Gi.be«.s  ojJz  z  :^z:7t  "  '"r^T"' 

Guard  her  as  you  like,"  he  said  inwardly  _«  „atoh  I,„ 

connue",  y„,  hle^Iro^/fort-^eTeaTrlJ  ™t  "'i' 
Richard  Gilbert.     Med.ii„g  M  p^    Mt  "'^'^  u°*  ■ 
affair  of  Lucy  West  he  h.^T u  ^^    .     "°  "*^  *»' 

old  Darey  wasLSn  ce  j<^rsi„tli„*l'°  «"'''  *" 

.- oc.patio„  te  :^r:;:dt!:;;srrn: 


^"t^iéM'^**^**^!"  ' 


,  ThE  LAWYER'S  WARNING.  51 

bud.    I  flatter  myself  I  ara  rather  more  than  a  match  for 
Aunt  Hetty." 

But  Mr.  Thomdyke  was  yet  to  learn  whether  he  was.or 
no  At  no  time,  well  or  ill,  was  this  élégant  youngdoctor 
addicted  to  the  vice  of  early-rising.  It  was  mostly  noon 
vhen,  half-carried  in  the  strong  arms  of  Un^le  Reuben 
and  Joe,  he  reached  the  parlor. 

Norine,  however,  was  up  with  the  lark— that  is  to  say, 
there  were  no  larks  in  December,  but  with  the  striking  six 
pf  the  kitchen  dock.  On  the  moming  following  the  stock- 
ing  darning,  as  the  family  assembled  together  for  their 
seven  o'clock  brWkfast,  Uncle  Reuben  said  : 

"Noriy,  l'm  a  going  to  give  you  a  treat  tO:4ay— some- 
thin^youVe  been  wanting  this  long  time." 

Norine  opened  her  black  eyes,  and  held  the  portion  of 
buckwheat  cake  on  her  fork,  suspended  in  space. 

"  A  treat  I  Something  IVe  been  wanting  this  long  time  I 
You  darling  old  dear,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"Don't  ask  me,  it's  a  secret,  it's    to  be  a  surprise. 

Hâve  you  finished  br^kfast?    Wal,  run  and  put  on  the 

best  dud^  youVe  got,  While  I  go  round  and  gear  up  JCitty." 

"Kitty!     Then  we're  going  somewhere.     Now  Uncle 

Reuben " 

"It  ain't  a  mite  o'  use,  Norry,  I  ain't  agoin'  to  tell. 
Be  off  and  clap  on  your  Sunday  fixins,  while  I  get  around 
the  cutter." 

"  You're  going  tô  take  me  to  the  city  and  buy  me  some 
thmg-a  silk  dress,  perhaps.  Oh,  unclçl  what  à  deai 
old  love  you  are  I    III  be  ready  in  ten  minutes." 

Uncle  Reuben's  heart  smote  him  a  little  a»  he  received 
Norine  s  rapturous  kiss,  but  there  was  no  drawing  baclc 
.aaieft  ttofrious^-sif^le^iss  BtrardM  flewoff  sjîigir^ 


^À/ï^  ^'0ià^0L*^&  ■* 


\  v*A  îa*J^*W V*^  >      -rft«-  ^     „ 


%• 


^       J-l 


52 


JVOR/JVE^S  REVENGE. 


»  skylajk,  to  make  her  toilet.     A  ne;  silk-voc   .k  . 

iJoort>.ay,  was  smiling  good-by  th.  Llu       ^T\  '"  "'^ 

frostyraomingsunshine.  "arted  away  m.o  the 

"M,/  going  to  the  city,  unclel»  cri.H  M„  •       ,.     ' 
where „„ earth  can you  be  Uking  L ?"         °""'     """• 

To    Menywçather's    mv  dear"    /soi^i 
UncleReuben  «where  you  hâve  hl;    .         ^  ^esponded 
you  thèse  thr^e  n^oll'  T^^^^^^^  '"^  [^  ^^^« 

•  surprise  4^'  ^'''^  *^^t  a  pieasant 

Therewasablanksilenceforamomenf    fh«*-i 
great  am^ze.     He  looked  at  her  LLnce      a      '     """  °' 
yond  a  d.ubt,  but  a  pieasant  oneH^Il  thaï  '"^"''  ''■ 
question.     Her  faceLd  .h.       ^  '     ^^  "^^^  ^"°^^er 

ment.  "^  changed  ommously  ail  in  a  mo- 

"  To  Merryweather's  ?  "  she  reoeated      «*  ti,-  ^      -, 
"ExarCv    r«„  ^  ="c  repeatea.     *  Thirty  miles  1  " 

.hey^î^^rr;-^:  trVd-drt  r'-'r 

•y  U.i.  ;n-re  at  W"' *■"«  '°  "^^    r*™"''  -<»  aï' 
"e  5  go  t  out  Tx,ut  the  end  of  the  week,  and  he'li  fetci.  U 


-w 


î#-- 


THE  LAWYEIVS  WARNING. 


53 


Make  your  mind  easy,  my  dear;  Aunt  Hettywill  forget 
nothin'."  f 

Norine  made  no  reply.  The  sunnyfaceworethedarkest 
expression  Uncle  Reuben  had  ever  seen  it  wear  yet  Was 
Mr.  Gilbert  right — ^was  the  mischief  done — was  it  toc  late, 
af  ter  ail  ? 

He  drove  on.  The  blank  silence  lasted.  He  had 
never  dreamed  the  laughing  face  of  his  little  Norine  could 
wear  the  look  it  wore  now.  She  Spoke  after  a  long  pausèj' 
in  a  tone  of  sullen  inquiry  : 

"  I  wish  you  had  told  me  last  night,  Uncle  Reuben.  It 
seems  very  odd  going  off  in  this  way.  What  will  Mr. 
Thorndyke  say  ?  " 

"  What  business  is  it  of  his  ?  **  placidly  inquired  Uncle 
Reuben. 

An  angry  flush  rose  up  over  Norine's  face. 

"  He  will  think  it  very  str  Jige— ^^ry  strange  j  I  did  nol 
even  say  good-by." 

"l'ilexplain^that." 

"AirdAunt  Hetty— how  will  she  ever  get  along  witli- 
out  me,  with  the  house  work  to  do,  and  Mr.  Thorndyke 
to  wait  on,  and  everything." 

."He  won't  be  to  wait  on  long,  he'U  be  able  to  return 
to  his  friends  in  Portîand  in  a  week,  and  to  tell  the  truth, 
I  shan't  be  sorry  to  be  rid  of  him.  As  |or  you,  Nony,  by 
the  way  you  object,  one  would  think  you  didn't  want  to  go, 
after  ail."  . 

Again  Norine  flushed  angrily. 

"I  don't  object  to  gomg,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  that  con- 
îradicted  her  words.  "  It  is  the  manner  of  going  I  don't 
like.  I  do  think  you  might  hâve  told  me  last  night,  Uncle 
Reuben."  r 


'S:.  "^' . 


a# 


^Cm 


\ 


54 


NORmEPS  RE  VENGE. 


^^Uncle  Reulin  stopped  the  cutter  .bruptiy,  and  looked 

"^ ;•  ^^^^  1 1""»  and  drive  tack  ?  "  he  asked 

^couldshesay?    The  black  eyes  emiited  an  anm- 

He  drove  on,  without  another  word.     Nonne  lav  back 
herself  so  dear  anrf  hfw^o    !u  ™  ^°  ^°"&  ™ade 

«ends  .  .e.  .^die.::  ^a^ft  r^l 


f 


^>< 


'^f 


^'t 


f-*\  -,' 


ptly,  and  looked 


CHAPTE|l  V. 


« 


I    WILL      BE     YOUR    WIFE. 


»» 


ISS  Bourdon's  visit  to  the  family  of- Mr.  Abel 
Merryweather  lasted  just  three  weeks  and  two 
days,  and  unspeakably  dull  and  empty  the  old 
red  farmhouse  seemed  witfiout  her.  Uncle  Joe 
had  gone  out  with  her  trunk  on  Saturàây,  and  with  the 
news  that  everybody  was  well,  and  Mr.  Thorndyke  was 
to  go  for  good  the  following  Monday. 

"  To  New  York  ?  "  Norine  asked,  tuming  very  pale. 

"  I  reckon  so,"  Uncle  Joe  responded,  coolly  ;  "  that's  to 
say,  he's  to  stop  a  few  days  in  Portland  with  his  friends 
there  ;  he's  goingto  spend  the  rest  of  the  winter  South — ^sa 
he  told  Hetty — down  to  Maryland  somewhere." 

Norin^  set  her  lips,  and  tumed  away  without  a  word. 
She  would  hâve  given  half  her  life  to  be  able  to  return 
with  Uncle  Joe,  but  she  was  far  too  proud  to  ask.  Some 
dim  inkling  of  the  truth  was'^eginning  to  dawn  upon  her. 
For  some  cruel  reason  they  did  not  wish  her  to  be  with 
Mr.  Thorndyke,  and  they  had  sent  her  hère  to  be  out  o£ 
his  way. 

They  were  the  duUest  three  weeks  of  the  young  lady's 
life.  Itwas  a  pleasant  place,  too— Mr.  Abel  Meny- 
weather's,  with  a  jolly,  noisy  houseful  of  sons  and  daugh- 
ters,  and  country  frolics  without  end.  Two  months  ago, 
Norine  4ad  looked  for ward  to  this-visit-mffi 


/ 


.  1iV.     V  .Jllt 


-•■^. 


56 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 


\-*'i  ', 


But  in  two  months  the  whole  worU  i„j    t         \ 
»ow,  there  was  no  sunshine  in T«  ''''"^'''  »'«' 

the  tàt3  wouid  light  IieM&I  h.         ./°™«  "^  ^""^ 
Mr.  Thorndyke  did  deitt  ftl  ?T,™"'  "°  "'°'=- 

and  inquired  of  AunrHerl,"  shT  """'"I  ''"*«' 
was  veo-  brief  and  reserved  ""■    ^""^  '•'P'/ 

speaker'sface.'  A™    nt  Jr  ne     "?  T^  ^"  "P™  "■« 
on  arranging  the  fumiture      '  '"*"«  ^'  ""'  «'« 

Kent;  « probfb^UeTeeks'^'"^'"""''"  '^''«'''    ^^'^ 

Mr.  Thorndyke  said  no  more     Aimt  B.«. 
histea.arrangedhisbutterT!^    fnnt  Hetty  poured  out 

■eft  the  roo™.^thi  befnlrin?   T^  "^"^  '^^'  ^'' 
Norine's  bright  face  tht,       ■  !     ^^""''"^''itherto, 
table,  instead^   ^TJ^^T^'  ^""^  <^-  "«le  roani 
He  sat  alone  now  o^  hT  '^^  7  T  °'  ^«^^  «««?• 
Plicabie  ,00k  on  his  hlndsleTœ  ^^  '"'""••  *»  '»«- 

ofyou,  after  ail.    I  wond«  if  ^         ^  """  --""xfond 

-ajd  to  hi^seif,  his  ™"t.  an,weAdX"'""^'^'"  "* 
ly  accurately.    «if.  „^h.,^^         *at  question  pret- 

of  Elizabetifand  4e  L  les  i?  "I,'"'  "  "<«'«">  ^« 
doing.of  course.  VezT^'  "f/ !  "/««nd  Gilbert', 
mine,  to  morrow  ""'  '''J'  "o*.  '<  >nay  bo 

Theinterveningdayswere  hopelessly  Ion,  .«d  drea^    ' 


«/  WILL  BE  YOUR  WIFE.» 


57 


to  Afr.  Laurence  Thomdyke.  How  fond  he  had  grown 
of  that  sparkling  brunette  face,  those  limpid  eyes  of 
"liquid  light,"  he  never  knew>  until  fie  lost  her.  That 
pleasant,  horaely  room  was  so  full  of  her— the  closed 
piano,  the  little  rocker  and  work-stand-by  the  window,  her 
beloved  books  and  birds.  Life  became,  ail  in  an  hour, 
a  horrible  bore  in  that  dull  red  fàrm-house.  Corne 
what  might  to  ankle  and  arm,  ailing  still,  he  would  go  at 
once.  He  dispatched  a  note  to  his  friends  in  Portland, 
and  early  on  Monday  morning  drove  away  with  Mr.  Thomas 
Lydyard,  his  friend. 

JlGcfd-by  Miss  Kent,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands 
jflner  on  the  doorstep.  «  I  can  never  repay  ail  your 
iPPps,  I  know,  but  I  will  do  my  best  if  the  opportunity 
evef  ofters.  Give  my  very  best  regards  to  Miss  Bourdon, 
and  tell  her  how  much  I  regretted  her  running  away." 

And  so  he  was  gone.     Uncle  Reuben  watched  him  oui 
of  sight  with  a  great  breath  of  .relief. 
"  Thank  the  Lord  Ar'j  gone,  and  that  danger's  over." 
[  ^^-Ali,  was  it  ?    Had  you  known  Mr.  Laurence  Thorndyke 
k^tter,  Reuben  Kent,  you  would  hâve  known,  also,  that  the 
danger  was  but  beginning. 

Mr.  Thomdyke  remained  four  days  with  his  friends  in 
the  cit^  and  then  started  for  New  York.  Reuben  Kent 
heard  it  with  immense  relief  and  satisfaction. 

"He's  gone,  Hetty,"  he  said  to  his  sister ,  «and  the 
good  Lord  send  he  may  never  cross  our  little  girl's  path 
agair.  I  can  see  her  now,  with  the  color  fading  out  of 
her  face,  and  that  white  look  of  disappointment  coming 
aver  it.    I  hope  she's  forgot  him  before  this." 

"  Will  you  go  for  her  to-day  ?  »  Aunt  Hetty  asked.  "  It't 
dreadful  lonesome  without  her." 


58 


MORTNE'S  RE  VENGE. 


f 


"Not  to-day.    Next  week  will  do     Shell  for»«*  i.- 
faster  there  than  hère,  Hetty  -  ^^  ^'"^ 

•■       Zf^^T  ^'°""'^  ^^  °^^  ^°"se.    Allthings  seemedto' 

waflfrt/?"  "^  •=''^''  '"  »  «^«'J.  'Piritless  sort  ot 
Pown  ,hm,  m  ,he  past  fortnight,  and  pale  and  wom-Iook- 

h«  J^!,"''"""!  "'"'  ^"^■y-"  ^»«'  Hetty  said,  givin. 
ner  a  welcoming  huff.  "You  ranV  t»ii  i,  i  j  «"^'"s 
hâve  von  K.^t        ■       ,       '^^""'="  •>»»' glad  we  areto 

"pectyouenjoyedvourviSi.awtullyno»?"         ^ 
.hê'h°„use?°"^'  """•  '""  «'''^  -<■  "-ee  young  men  in 

..  Y^^t?  y°"  "'S'ad  to  be  home  again  ?  •' 
'    leltd  hjr  he"°d  ''"''   T'^-''^'^  8'^<''  ''"«'ver.     She 

had  she  not  begun  even  to  forget  yet,  after  ail  ? 


:\      „ 


«/  WILL  BJS  YOUR  WIFE» 


59 


oung  men  in 


She  opeped  her  eyes  suddéiiîy  while  Aunt  Hetty  was 
thîuking  this,  and  spoke  abruptly.  '       , 

"  What  did  Mr.  Thorndyke  say  when  he  found  I  was 
gone?" 

'    "  Nothing.     Oh — ^he  a^ked  how  long  you  were  going  to 
stay.  " 
-     "Wasthatall?" 

"Thatwasall." 

"  Did  he  not  inquire  where  I  had  gone  ?  "     "     * 

"No.my  dear." 

Nonne  said  no  more.  The  fire-light  shone  full  on  her 
face,  and  she  lifted  a  book  and  held  it  as  a  screen.  Se 
long  she  sat  mute  and  motionless  that  Aunt  Hetty  fancîed 
she  had  fallen  asleep.  She  laid  her  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
Norine's  blaçk,  sombre  eyes  looked  up.  '  : 

"  I  thought  you  were  asleep,  my  dear,  you  sat  so  still,. 
Is  anythjng  the  matter  ?  '* 

"1  am  tired,  and  my  head  âches.  I  believe  I  will  go  to  bed. 

"  But,  Norry,  it  is  Christhias  eve.  Supper  is  ready,  arid — t* 

"  I  can't  eat  supper — I  don't  Urish  aiiy.  Give  nie  a  cup 
ot  tea," aunty,  arid  let  me  go.  "  -  ■..  '^       ^> 

With  a  sigh,  aunty  obeyed,  aqd  'slowly  and  wearily 
Norine  toiled  up  to  her  room.  It  was  very  cosy,  very 
pleasant,  very  homë-like  and  warm,  that,  snug  upper 
chamber,  with'itsstriped,  home-made carpet  of  scaiîet  and 
greeu^  its  blazing  fire  and  shaded  lamp.  Outsi<ie,  the 
keen,  Christmas  stars  shoûe  coldly,'and  the  world  lay 
white  in  its  chill  winding  sheet  of  snow. 
*3ut  Norine  thought  neither  of  the  comfort  within  npr  the 
désolation  without.  ^  She  sank  down  into  a  low  o^aii 
before  the  fire  and  looked  blankly  into  the  red  co^l^ 

"  Gone  1  "    somethiog  m  hçr  :It6ad   s^med   beating 


,t4.-«^s^>.' 


».-: 


■'*„™«i> 


v'5^. 


iii^i^ 


•''.;i; 


60 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 


*    \- 


that  ope  Word,  like  thé:  ticking  of  a  dock  •  «»o„,._^- 
-«o„e  foreve,.    And  it  ^^ orAy  t^'JXXT^ 
cars  wouW  hâve  taken  him,  and  he  nè^r  «m»      .  ?? 
•      thonght,  I  thobgh^  he  liked  n,e  a  li«le  -      ''^'-    '^'^  ' 
It  was  a  dismal  Christmas  eve  at  K-.»nf  T7.         .. 

■     "Cm""  r  '°'^'''  »^  w^Ô'^ode'Lv...""^*  "'  *' 
The  New  Yéar  dawned,  passed,  and  the  ides  of  F.h. 
rsaiy  came.    And  Norine— sh»  J,,.      .  ""^ 

member,  began  to  pluck  Û^Lt  „T  °^  ""'"''""•  ''■ 
her  ,a«gh  4  outf and  hTr  S^^  bef rj^  ■"°"'  ""' 
ataost.  as  before  the  coming^ann„Tng%T  T"^' 
Charmmg.  AIraost  ;  the  woman's  heart  hln  î  ^"^ 
'he  girFs  breast,  and  the  oM  chHdS,  '''"^  '" 

never  be  quile  the  .»m.  «"O  ™'<l'sh  joyousness  could 

heàrd  his  r.e.ten  Mr  G^bertTd  ""'^'"^  "?™' 
March  came.  "  Tin.e. 'l^'^l::  ""^t  .^^^f  „f  ""•«• 
dnes  our  tears  and  SDoils  n„r  m-  »  u  ?  ^'''"ë^''' 
"ers  long  ago.  and  the  :X'dor:f  wltlho'rn^k  ^"  ' 

Ko  letters  .oU\rt:trMV'=Gterno\''"l '""• 

She  sighed  a  little  over  the  quilt  she  w«  .„,l,- 
wonderful  quilt  of  white  and  "  Turkev  rld  »    ^'""fr» 
.ngChinese  puz*  to  the  uninitiated     ît"t  alï^M '^k 
aften^oon  cheerless  and  slushy,  the  hou  se  "il"  t  L"  mb 
»nd  no  hvmg  th ùiff  to  be  seen  in  fh^      *  f  ''' 

«at  alone  at  her  work!  °"'^'  "^°'^^'  ^«  «^« 


"/  WILL  BE  YOUR  WIFE.*' 


6i 


1. 
"  What  a  stupid,  dismal  humdrum  sort  of  lif e  it  is." 

Miss  Bourdon  thought,  drearily,  "  and  I  suppose  it  will 
go  on  for  thirty  or  forty  years  exactly  like  this,  and  l'il 
dry  up,  and  wrinkle  and  grow  yellow  and  ugly,  and  be  an 
old  maid  like  Aunt  Hetty.  I  think  it  would  be  a  grea^ 
deal  better  if  some  pçople  never  were  born  at  ail." 

She  paused  suddeiîly,  with  this  wise  generality  in  her 
mind.  A  man  was  approaching — a  tall  man,  a  familar  and 
rather  distifiguished-looking  man.  One  glance  was  enough. 
With  a  cry  of  delight  she  dropped  the  Chinese-puzzle  quilt, 
sprang  up,  rushed  out,  and  plumped  full  into  the  arms  of 
the  gentleman.  -r-.- 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Gilbert  !  ""  she  cried,Jier  black  eyes,  her  whole" 
face  radiant  with  the  delight  of  seeing  some .  one,  "  how 
glad  I  am  to  see  you  !  It  has  been^fc  duU,  and  I  thought 
you  had  forgotten  us  altogether.     Corne  in — come  in." 

She  held  both  his  hands,-  and  pulled  him  in.  Unhappy 
Richard  Gilbert  1'  Who  is  to  blâme  you  for  construing 
that  enthusiastic  welcome  to  suit  yourself.?  In  fear  and 
.  foreboding,  you  had  approached  that  house— you  had 
looked  for  coldness,  aversion,  reproaches,  perhaps.  You 
had  nerved  yourself  to  bear  them,  and  défend  yourself, 
and  instead — this. 

His  sallow  face  flushed  ail  over  with  a  delight  more 
vivid  than  her  o\yn.  For  one  delicious  moment  his  breath 
stopped.  .  , 

"  And  -so  you  hâve  thought  of  ihe,  Noriné  !  "      ' 
"Oh,  so  oftenl    Ànd  hoped,  land  longed,  and  looked 
for  your  comiri|r.     But  you  nev^r  came,  and  ypu  nevei 
wTote,  and  I  was  sure  you  had  forgotten  me  altogether." 

Hère  was  an  opening,  and^he  let  it  fall  dead  !     Hc 
might  be  a  clever  lawyer,  but  cehainly  he  was  n^t^  çl^vei 


i   62 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE, 


lover.  He  was  smiling,  and  yes,  actually  blushin^,  and 
tmghng  with  delight  to  his  finger  ends.  Her  radiant, 
.  bloommg  face  was  upturned  tb  him,  t%  black  eyes"  lifted 
and  dancing,  and  heJooked  down  upënthose  sparkling 
charms,  and  in  a  flat  voice — said  this  :       ,  ^ 

"We  hâve  had^  great  deal  of  snbw  lately.  How  ^re 
your  uncles  and  aunts ?"  .  • 

Butthe  young  ladv's  ejpjthusîasm  w4s  not  in  the  least 
dampehed.  He  waslier  friend,  not  her  lo^er,  he  was  a 
kindly  gleam  of  sunshine  across  the  dead  levd  of  her  sad- 
colored  life, 

"They  are  ail  very.well,  thank  you,  Mr.  Gilbert,  and 
will  be  very  glad  to  see  yOu.  Sit  down-  and  take  ofF  your 
overcoat.  Vou'll  stay  for  tea„  won't  you,  and  ail  night? 
Oh,  how  pleasant  it  is  to  see  you  back  hère  again  !  " 

Happy  Mr.  Gilbert  !  And  yet,  if  he  had  stopped  to  an- 
alyze  th^t  frank,  glad,  sisterly  welcome,  he  would  hâve 
known  it  the  most  ominau?  thing  on  earth  for  his  hopes. 
Had  hç  been  Laurence  thorndyke  she  would  never  hâve 
welcomed  him  lik^Uiis.  Bèt  just  now  he  took  the  goods 
the  gods  providedj  ^d  never  stopped  to  anJlyze. 

"  Perhaps  I  wasitiistâken  after  ail  about  Thorndyke  » 
he  thought,  "  he  h^  gone  for  good,  and  I  never  saw  hér 
look  more  bnghtly*)loom|ng.  After  ail  a  girl's  fancy  for 
a  handsome  face,  and  a  flirting  manner,  need  noir  be  very  /' 
deep  or  lasting.  It  w^s  only  a  fancy,  and  died  a  natura/ 
death  m  a  week.  H(iw  forùmate  I  spoke  in  time,  and 
how  clear  and  true  she  rings  !  I  will  ask  her  to  be  mv 
wife  before  I  leave  Kent  Farm." 

He  had  corne  to  stake  his  fate— «  to  win  or  lose  it  ail  " 
to  lay  his  life  at  her  feet,  but  he  had  hoped  for  nothing 
like  this.    He  loved  hei>-he  knew  it  now  as  your  staid 


'r: 


■•''•'1' 


^r.:'-' 


d* 


**/  Pt^/lL  BE  YOU/i  WIFE.' 


63 

middle-agëd  men  do  once  in  a  lifetime.  He  had  waited 
until  he  could  wait  no  longer — she  might  refuse,  he  had 
little  hôpe  of  anything  else,  but .  then  at  .'east,  any  cer- 
tainty  was  better  than  susp^eftsé. 

Mr.  Gilbert's  greeting  from  the  Kent  family  was  ail 
that  mortal  man  could  look  for.  They.  had  giiessed  his 
secret  ;  perhaps  they  also  guessed  his  ôbject  in  coming 
now.  He  was  very  rich,  and  above  them  no  doubt,  but 
_  was  there  king  Or  kaiser  in  ail  the  world  to»  good  for  their 
beautiful  Norine,      '  '  • 

He  stayed  to.tea.     After  that  meal,  while  Aunt  Hetty 

^as  busy  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  men  about  the  farm-yar(^ 

'"  he  found  hîmself  alone  in  the  front  room  with  Miss  Bour- 

do]^.     She  stood  looking  out  through  the  undrawn  curtains 

atpe  still,  white,  pielancholy  winter  night. 

The  first  surprise  and  delight  of  the  meeting  pàst,  she 
hqid  grdwn  very  still.  His  coming  had  brought  Other 
mpnories  rushing  Spon  her  as  she  stood  hère  in  that  pret- 
ly  attitude  looking  out  at  the  frosty  stars. 

She  was  nerving  herself  to  ask  a  question.  Without  turn- 
ing  round,  and  speaking  very  carelessly,  she  asked  it. 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Thorndyke  is  in  New  York.  Hâve  you 
se  en  him  lately?" 

A  jcalous  pang  shot  through  the  lawyer's  heart.  She 
retnembered  yet. 

**  I  see  him  very  oftèn,"  he  answered,  promptly,  and  a 
little  Goldly  ;  "  I  saw  him  the  day  I  left.  He  is  about  )to 
be  mj^rried." 

'  She  was  standing  with  her  baek  to  him,  fluttering  in  a 
lestiess  sort  of  waj .    As  he  said  this  she  suddenly  grew  still.  * 
"The  match  is  a  very  old  affair,"  Mr.  Gilbert  went  ort,» 
resolutely  ;  "  he  has  been  engaged  nearly  two  years;- 


v- ..... 


...._/'■ 


ry 


'  / 


/ 


,-8*1 


tsr'^ 


'àA!^  '^'. 


64 


^roRI^r£rs  revenge. 


mcle,  Mr.  Darcy,  wishes  it  ve,y  mudh.  The  youne  lad, 
«  an  hcress,  and  extremely  handsome.  li^Zl  v^ 
rauch  attached  to  one  another,  it  is  said,  and  are  to^ 
mamed  early  in  the  spHng.  are  ro  De 

fJ'î!,*M"°""°'"~*'"*<'"°'»Pe'*-  A  blanfc-uncom- 

fortable  s.Ience  followed,  and  onee  more  poor  Mr  GUb«°, 

heart  eontracted  with  a  painful  jeatas  spast    TZ 

wouldon  y  mm  round  andiethim  seeherfL     Wh,  7^ 

'ounderstand  thèse  girlsl  ™no  waa 

_  "  What  I  ail  in  the  dark,  Norry  î  »  cried  Uncle  Reuben-, 

^  T^^  ^^l  --  "-«-g  in  redole'nt  otsX' 

tL    K    T-  ''^'''  "P-  *"^  eî'*  Mr.  Gilbert  a  song." 

„™!\^^^?   "  """•     ™=  e'"«  "f  ">«  larnP  fell  full 
upon  her  what  change  was  it  that  he  saw  in  her  face 
5he  „as  hardly  paler  than  usual,  she  rarely  had  m^h 
«>Ior,  bu,  there  „as  an  expression  about  the  soft^ut  chUd 
.sh  moud,,  an  unpleasant  tightness  about  the  lips  Tat  auUe 
altered  the  whole  expression  of  the  face  ^        ' 

ter  fta^TV';'^''"''.''"''  ^""g-^""g  and  played  bet. 
ter  than  he  had  ever  heard  her  before.     She  san?  for 

t  bëdti^f hr:r  """'  ""  '«'^-^  °'  '-  •»'«  "« 

shrewdestlaVrof  theiSi     He  il  f  \^^®^  '^^ 

u^r.^    t  1  ,  ,  •    ^^  ^^y  tossing:  about  full  nf 

cE.     "''"'  ^"^°"^^'°'  ^^"^^  ^^  ^-i  at  l,^ve^ 
.y.       1 11  ask  her  to  marry  me  to-morrow." 


\ 


';t-«ki^;iï- 


■-^ 


R^4?n^^^>;:'.**!rEjp%i«^ 


'.*::  ;Vy:'*2^'..7- 


I 


"/  WILL  BE  YOUR  WlFE» 


65 


With  Richard  Gilbert  to  résolve  was  to  act.  Five  sec- 
onds after  they  had  met^  shaken  hands,  and  sald  good- 
aoming,  hé  proposetj  a  sleigh  ride.  The  day  was"  raild 
bd  sunny,  the  sleighing  splendid,  and  a  sleigh  ride  to  a 
7ew  Yorker  a  rare  and  delightful  luxury.  fWould  she  go  ? 
Tes,  she  would  go,  but  Miss  Bourdon  said  it  spiritlessly 
Bnough.  And  so  the  sleigh  was  brought  round,  and  at  ten 
>'clock  in  the  crisp,  yellow  sunshine,  the  pair  started. 

But  it  must  hâve  been  a  much  duUer  spirit  than  that  of 
îorine  that  could  hâve  remained  dull  in  that  dazzlingsun- 
fehine,  that  swif t  rush  through  the  Slill  frozen  ^ir.  A  lovely 
rose-pink  came  into  her  pale  cheeks,  a  bright  lig|t  into 
her  brown  eyeâ,  her  laugh  rang  out,  she  was  hersetf  as. 
le  had  first  kno^n  hçr  once  more. 

"How  splendid  tinter  is,  after  alll  "  she  exclaimed ; 
*'lookat  those  ciystallized  hemlocks— did  you  ever  see. 
mything  so  beautiful  ?  I  sometimes  wonder  how  I  caû  find 
|it  so  dreàiy." 

"  You  do  find  it  dreary,  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  so  dreary— so  long— so  humdrum— so  dull  !  »    àîie 
checked  herself   with  one  of  her  pretty  French  gestures. 
r  It  seems  ungrateful  to  say  so,  but  I  can't  help  it.     Lifo  ' 
^eeins  hardly  worth  the  living  sometimes  hère." 

"  Hère  1 1  Would  it  be  better  elsewhere  ?  " 

"Yes^-llthinkso;    Change  is  always  pleasant.     One" 
rows  dull  and  stupid  living  in  ohe  dull  stupid  place  for- 
8ver.     Change  is  what  I  want,  novelty  is  delight." 

"  Let  me  offer  it  to  you  then,  Norine.    Corne  vto  New 
fork  Avith  me."  # 

"Mr.  Gilbert!    With  you  1"     ^    '- 

"With  me— as  my  wife,Tlove  you,  Norine."  "     ' 

It  was  said.    The  old  formula,  the  rommonplace  word*^,- 


f 


I.»i. 


■^ft'j.i'A.a^.       ,  ■■vi\,-'iv    ^SA".. 


66 


JfOK/Jves  REVENGE. 


\  his  life  hunff  on  her  r^r,i„    V    ^^^^  ^"  ^^e  happmess 
„T,  Marry^^«/    Mr.  Gilbert  t» 

do  n,y  best  to  «^';:„  L^l'^t^  C-  ^5  ■"«  i-'?^ 
.      how  long  I  h„e  thoughtT^^tôw  S; '    T  '"" 
you  wouldsurelynot  refuse   r  .^    T         ^     '°™  ^°"' 

'^Snéfj  ,  x"^""  °*  *»«.»«  <H!  Richard  GUbert 

opeak  to  me,  Norine  "  hn  i,U  «*;.  u      ""oerr. 

don-t  sit  silent  like  thi  JÎ^W  ^^Ûf '„    T"  '  T'  ' 

evil,  let  me  hâve  my  answer  at^|"     '  '        ^""^  "'  ' 

But  stiU  she  sat  mute.    She  hS'Ssfctàrence  Th.,,' 

Xm  he  Z  Ï„  m"fS  ■"  ^k"'  '''"'"^"''  "'«^"«d  hefress 
in  the  nan^^™  !î^  '"  **  'P™^-    «he  would  read  i, 

the  man  beside  her  w  a  s^";*  f  f  '""''"">'  "> 
had  woni  last  nîJhr  iT  ,"°"*'ng  "f  the  look  her  face 
m=^4"  ^      '"''^"'^''«"'«««'«fThomayke', 


:  Hife- 


..J 


ii- 


»:i. 


WILL  BE  YOC/J^  WJFE» 


67 


"  You  are  verV  good,"^  she  answefed,  quite  steadily.  "  1 
^11  be  your  wife^if  you  like." 

"  Thank  Heavén  1  "— -he  said  under  his  breath.  "  ïhank 
leaven  I  "  \ 

Her  heart  smote\her.  She  was  giving  him  so  little — he 
Iras  giving  her  so  iliuch.  He  had  always  l^een  her  good, 
jind,  faithful  frienti,  and,  she  had  liked  him  so  much. 
^es,  that  was  just  it]|jÉ|^|||bîhim  so  well  she  could  never 
3ve  him.    But  at  ^^f^^^Plgld  be  honest. 

"  I— I  don't  care  ^t^^^W^  don't  lovfr — "  she  broke 
lown,  her  eyes  fixejF^^^uff.     "  Oh,  Mr.  Gilbert,  I 
|o  hke  you,  but  not  l«fthat     It— ï  know  l'in  not  hdf 
5od  enough  ever  to  marry  you." 
Hé  smiled,  a  smile  pf  great  content.  ^     . 

"  You  will  let  me  b^  the  judge  6t  that,  Norry.  You  are 
^uite  sure  you  like  me  i?/'  "  ' 

"  Oh,  yes.    I  always  did,  you  know^  but  I  never— «o 
^ever  thojught  you  cared  for—    Oh>  dear  me  !  how  odd  it 
4ems.    ^iat  wUl  Un(^e  Reuben  say  1"        \^ 
Mr  Gilbert  smiléd  again.  *  * 

"Ujicle  Keuben  wont  lose  his  sensés  with  suiprise,  I 
ancy.    Ah,  Norry,. Un^le  Reuben's  eyes  are  not  half  ^ 
buarter  so  bright  nor  soi  black  as  yours,  but  he  has  seGn  ' 


/ 


lore  than  you  after  ail.  ,  « 

And  then  ail  the  way  komelie  poufed  ys^o  her  pl^àed 
pstening  ear  the  story  of  heç,  future  life.    It  soijindeéTike 

fairy  taie  to  the  country  girl.  A  dazzling  vista  spread 
^efore  her,  a  long  life  in  "marble  halls,"  Brussels  carpets, 
atin  upholstery,  a  grand  piano,  picturép,  books,  and  new 
lusic  without  end.  Sijk  dresses,'  diamdhd  ear-rings,  the 
leatres,  the  opéra,  a  carriage,  a  waiting-maid— French,  il  ' 
bossible— her  favorite  heroines  ail  h^d  French  mi^iH^f^ 


p  ■ 


T  i 


'.tev'>j.  .1- 


■ 


' 


^. 


h 


68 


JVORINEPS  RE  VENGE. 


Long  Branch,  Newport,  balls,  dinners — ^her  head  swam 
with  the  dazzle  and  delight  of  it  ail.  Be  his  wife — o£ 
course  she  would  be  his  wife — to-morrow,  if  it  were  prac- 
ticable. 

-But  she  did  not  say  this,  you  understand.  Her  face  was 
ail  rosy  and  dimpling  and  smiling  as  they  drove  home; 
and  alas  for  Richard  Gilbert,  how  little  he  personally  had 
to  do  with  ail  that  girlish  rapture.  He  saw  that  well- 
pleased  face,  and,  like  a  wise  man,  asked  no  useless  ques- 
tions. She  was  going  to  be  his  wife,  everything  was  said 
ia  that 


*i        / 


» 

• 

' 

;     - 

•  •  -  *    d 

• 

i 

f      9 

*     « 


"tes 


CHAPTER  VI. 


.■^.-1'- 


BEFORE  THE  WEDDING. 

HE  sober  March  twilight  lay  low  on  the  snowj 
earth  when  the  sleigh  whirled  up  to  the .  door. 
The  red  fire-light  shone  through  the  Windows, 
and  they  could  see  Aunt  Hetty  bustling  about 
the  kitchen.  Neither  had  spoken  for  a  time,  but  now 
Norine  turned  to  him,  as  she  lightly  sprang  out. 

"  Say  nothing  of  this  to-night,"  she  said,  hurriecjly  ; 
"  wait  until  to-morrow."      - 

She  miS  gone  before  he  could  answer,  and  he  drove 
round  to  the  stable.  Uncle  Reuben  was  there,.  and  Mr. 
Gilbert  remained  with  hira  until  Aunt  Hetty's  voice  was  heard 
calling  them  to  supper.  The  lawyer  was  standing  in  the 
doorway,  watching  the  solemn  stars  corne  out,  a  great 
silent  grayity  on  his  face.  But  oh,  so  happy,  toO — so  deep- 
ly,  unutterably  happy. 

The  supper  table  was  spread,  lamp-light  beamed,  fire- 
light  glowed,  and  Aunt  Hetty  awaited  them  impatient,  lest 
her  warm  milk  biscuits  and  sugared  "  flap-jacks  "  should 
grow  cold . 

Norine  stood  leaning  against  *he  mantel,  looking  dream- 
ily  into  the  red  fire.  How  pale  she  was,  how  strangely 
grave  and  thoughtful.  Yet  not  unhappy,  sureiy,  for  she 
glahced  ûp  In  her  lôvérT  faccs'Wllh  a  quicT  btush  arah 


\. 


■K-' 


70 


^rOJ!/JV£>S  REVENGE. 


% 


.     gra.ifyheri„eve,y.hi„g.     I  wil.lTdetted  îf^û 

down  by  the  windo;     i^eWlv^?r       °'"  '"'''  ""''  =« 
>.ght,  ebon/shado,"-.  n^:;!"       r^'r^T^JT 

was  visible  far  or  near.    Theré  „L  '  1  ^     '""^  *'"« 

life  d,a.  was  dawnW  for  he    t^^\  """  '"''  '■"•"  "'« 
ard  Gilberfs  wife  1    hÎ?     .  '  ^    '  """""  "s""-     Ri*- 

-dulgent  elder  bro^h"    bu.  lovt ^rj     or..''""".  "" 

If  I  liad  never  met  hini,"  sl,e  thou^ht  "  T  m^î^'v 
l«cn  a  happy  „ife,  but  nowl   Now  cl  I  L/,     ^'"  *?™ 
get  him,  a„d  to  give  Mr.  Gilbert Tis X?"       "  '°  '"• 
She  covered  her  face  with  her  hand,  alona  as  she  wa> 


=^ 


•\ 


AC 


^FORE   THE   WEDDING.  -j 

AlaM^  Richard  Gilbert  !  congratulating  himself  atthat' 
xy  moment  on  having  won  for  his  veiy  own  the  fairest 
tbe  sweetest,  the  truest  of  her  sex.  f 

Miss  Bourdon  sat  mournfuHy  musing  there  until  long 
pist  bedtime,  long  ^st  midnight     Moonlight  and  star- 
light  paled  presently,  |he  prospect  grew  gloomy,  the  a-ii 
bitter  cold,  and  shivering  and  misérable,  the  girl  crepl 
away  to  bed.     Even  then  she  coiïïd  not  sleép-her  nerves 
were  ail  unstrung  and  on  edge.     Sh^lay  broad  awake 
trying  to  imagine  what  her  life  would  be  like  as  Mr  Gil- 
bert's  wife     The  fairy  world  o^  her  dreams  and  her 
books  would  opeif  t($  her.     Costly  dresses  and  jewels,  a 
fine  house  in  New  York,  her  carriage  and  servants,  sum- 
mer  travel  and  winter  l>alls-all  this  he  had  promised  hef. 
And  there  m  the  midst  afrit  ail,  once  again  she  would 
meet  Laurence  Thorndike.     It  would  be  part  of  the 
romance,  she  as  the  wife,  he  as  the  husband  of  another 
and  the  weak  silly  hfeart  fluttering  undçr  the  bedclothes  ' 
gave  a  great  bound.    Then  she  .remembered  that  it  would 
be  wicked  to  wish  to  see  him-a  sin  t^  be  happy  in  his 
présence;  but  do  what  she  wodd,  the  hope  of  meeting 
him  agam,  was  at  the  bottom  of  fier  wiUingn^s  to  become 
the  lawyer's  wife. 

When  Norine  descende'H  to  breakf  J  next  moming,  she 
found  Mr.  Gilbert  standing  ip  the  open  doorway,  looking 
out  at  the  f rosty  sunshine.  He  came  f orward  to  meet  her. 
his  face  suddenly  radiant. 

^^  "]  hâve  Leen  waiting  to  waylay  you,"  he  said,  smilhig, 
I  want  you  to  let  me  tell  your  unçle  tc^ft-  » 

"  You  are  in 
tiently. 

— !!  ygs^jg^ijiarllng.  ^J\yhy_  sbould 


tQ, 


hurry,"  Norine  ^nswered,  rather  impa- 


( 


I  tioirl^ef   And  I  ftr 


«^>      t% 


;*-\' 


.    /-.). 


/ 


iU 


I     NORrjVE^s  REVENGE. 

She  smiledjand  gavehim  her  hànd.  She  had  said  "ves  " 
to  a  more  imj,Qrtafft  proposition,  he  had  been  very  good 
to  her,  why  sl^ould  she  not  please  him  ? 

'     choose/ "  't ,"'''  """  ''"'''''     ^^"  "^^  ""^^^  ^^  y- 

.hllf?^  il  ^W^^"^^  Norine-as  I  think.he  will-when 
shall  I  tell  hirp  our  marriage  is  to  take  place  ?    I  want  \t 

i^^w-f  T^    '""  "'"''  ^°"^^^  ^^^^^"^  y°"-     Corne,  my 
Jittle  wifeJ  naine  ah  early  day."  ^ 

JOh,Ica«not!  I  don't  know  wHen.    Nt«t  summer  some 

«  That  is  indefinite,"  he  laughed.  «  Allow  me  to  be  de- 
nmte.     Say  early  ne;tt  May." 

"No,  no,  no!  that  is  too  soon-greatly  too  soon  I  T 
couldn't  be  ready."  '  &    ,    J'      '^  suon  j  i 

"  Then,  when  ?  I  won't  be  selfish,  but  you  must  be  mer- 
ciful,  mademoiselle,  and  not  keep  me  in  suspense  too  long." 

She  laughed  her  old  gay  laugh.  ^ 

"Patience,  monsieur;  patience  stands  chief  amontr  the 
virtues.      Will  June  do-the  last  ?  "  ^  • 

"Thefirst,  Norine." 

edltway.^'*"^  ""^^  '°'"^"^  '^°"^^  ''^'^""-    Norine  dart- 

JJt''^^!  "'  ^°"  '''"  '   ^^"'^  y°"  ^^"'  "^e  to  help  you 
.mtli  breakfast,  auntie  ?  '  ^  ^ 

^Mr.  Gilbert  smilihglj  looked  after  his  bright  little  priée 

.o  oon  to  be  h,s  bnght  little  wife,then  turnedto  AuntHe  ^i 

;  Where  is  your  brother  this  morning,  Miss  Kent?    I 

wish  to  speak  to  him."  "s>s  is^entr    J 


mmer  some 


73 


:■  BEFORE   THE  IVEDD/NG. 

"  In  the  stable,  I  think.    Shall  I  go  and  sei  ?  » 
.    -     "Notât  ail.     I  will  go  ^lyself."  f  A. 

r  .      He  walkecf  away,  humming  a  tune,  in  the  Àappiness  ôf 
h^sJieart.   Ah  !  shone  ever  winter  sun  so  brightly  before 
J^ked  ^v^/dje^ork-a-day  world  so  paradislLus  now i 
1  he  çarth  and  ail  thereon  was  transformed  .^  with  an  en- 
di^ters  wand  t<ï  this  middle-aged  legaJ  gentleman  ia 

I^ieïe  Reubén,  busy  among  his  cattle,  looked  up  in 
5on^  surprise  àx  sight  of  his  early  visitot 
•     "Aon't  ret/ne  interfère  with  your  work,  Kent,"  the 
awyer  said.     ^' You  can  attend  to  your  horses  and  isten 
too.^  I  must  eave  the  day  after  to-morrow  ;  my  business' 
has  been  too  long  neglected,  and  I  hâve  someth'ing  of  im' 
portance  to  te    you  before  I  go.     Something  I  hope^i 
beheve,  you  will  not  be  sorry  to  hear  " 
The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met.     There  was  a  peculiar 

l!L%:nfe^  """^"^""  ^ew.suddenly  bri/ht'with  ^ 
'     "Is  it  about  Norry?" 

A  smile  and  a  nod  answered  him 

ft.r.f'""'^-  /■"  ''^''"  *'  "»•»«  °f  ^veiything  wonder-' 
M  hâve  you  found  it  out  ?  ï,  ""K  wonaer- 

irncleReuben'seyest«-inI*|dshrewdly.  ^         , 

I  am  t  a  lawyer,  1^.  Gilblî^  but  I  can  sjSfcos  far  inM 

a  mfctone  a,  any  cher  „,a„.    Do  you  thinlI^pteÏÏ 


•   /■ 


& 


own  pâw,  ajfd 


I'.       * 


.     ^  ^QRINE^S  REVE. 

.  ^'  ^W"^^  actually  blushed.     A 

iWen,  J^.  Kent,  I  trist  I  itve  y, 

•^fnl  "'^  ''°"°'  '■""«"'fem  or- lier  by  the 
tnd  when  s  i>  t«  k^  .,:•,»  ,       -^.'"i^- 


PÔO( 


.  ?irW%^^   T^f"^  good  for  his  beautifui* 
^   :*^  .?^^^^  wedding?"  smiled  Mr  n;^ù: 


V     J 


K 


"  The  first  week 


\t 


i<i7 


ofS  "k  rof  "■M™"'"  ^^-  ^*«-'*    "  The  fc.  week 

being  possible.    I  hâve  ntleli  h  ""'    ""'"''"  °'  "' 

•ate,  and  it  h,s  accu"  latfd  "CwuS  ""'^:''^'  °' 
.nd  swter,  |Cent  ?  "  ^"  ^^"^  brother 

,  vve  will  miss  her  so  piuch,"  she  sai(^»h.  ^^  u  ' 

tg<»«l  Inî^l,  a 


V. 


i»:ii  „         ,.,  ^  i»u»-",    sne  sau 

wiUseemhkeatombwithouther.    H« 


T 


/- 


t?.. 


■,,;,av^ij^  .-7 


:BEF0RE   THE   WEDDING. 

rich  man,  and  a  gentleman— I  ought  to  rejoice  .for  hèr 
sake  but  it  does,jg|m  hard  aî  first  to  ^ve  her  up  for 

"Thèse  things  will  happen,  Hetty,"  said  Uncle  Reii- 
ben,  philosophically,  but  sighing,  too;  «ifs  nater  We 
ought  to  think  of  nothiug.but  the  Lord's  goodness  in 
-ivuig  her  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Gilbert  for  a  husband  »  ^ 

So  it  was  settled.    When  Norine  came  back  from  her 

^.,_^walk/ Aunt  Hetty,kissed.her,  shook  hands  wiili  the  La^^^^^^^ 
,     and  the  betrothal  Was  quietly  over.     There  was  no  scène' 
and  no  tears,  but  tJie  good  wishes  for  l^oth;  were  none  the 
less  heartfelt  for  that,  '   '     . 

<-       The  day  after  to-morrow  came.     Mr.  Gilbert  went,  and 
the  préparations  for  the  wedding  began!     Norine's  «set- 
tmg  out"  was  to  be  on  a  scale  of  unpr^edented  magnif- 
icence..   Uncle  Reuben  had  ri^oney,  and  did  not  grud^e 
spendmg  it.^  Aunt  Hetty  took  her  into  town,  and  a  whole 
day  was   spent  shopping-^^e  big  family  carryall   went 
. .    home  m  the  evening  ^Iled  to  repletion  with  dry  goods 
A  seamstress  and  a  dressmakef  were  engaged,  both  to 
corne  eut  on  the  following  day,  and  Norine,  in  the  pleasant 
bustl^  and  hurry,  actually  forgot  Laurence  Thorndyke  for  - 
eight  cgins^g^tive  hçurs.  - 

The  tWp  seamstressès  came  to  Kent  Hill  the  following 
l  mornmg  and  great  and  mighty  were  the  measurlng  and 
cuttmgthatensued  The  «  keeping  room,"  was  given  up 
to  them  and  the  bride  elect,  and  ail  day  long,  and  for 
mar^daysaftev^^  busyneedles  flew.  Befc^  the  end 
TT  JS^SI  yP^'!^  ^r  and  wide  that  pretty  Norry 
^ft  ^  ™l^"#^ere,  had  made  a  great  conquest 
l^^-^tto^arÀed  ^  one  of  the  richest  la^ 


4  a 


T=W 


\s 


^1!- 


'*44-- 


Ifr" 

m    • 

■C^'  •'   ^ 

m 

Lv      '*W''<», 


t  lf>.  . 


.1 


l^S^ 


;>;-;. 


r^ 


I'- 


^ORINE^S  REvkNGE.      ^ 


1 

in  a  burst  of  gratitude     "  r  „,  V.  l     , ''°™«  tho^gH 
as  happy  as,  ever  I  canT  ''  '"''  ^  """  ""^'  him 

but  surely  dimmi^  »L     k  T*   '  ™age  was  slowly 
moVeas  L  Z  tt^'h^^A™'^  ='"«  ""'"ely  once  * 

trous  pearLr'l,^^»-PP'' !"  «-M'»  silk  and  lus- 
uu»  peari5,  orange  blossomsana- .Mechlin  1»^«     -.u    -, 


I 


\ 


.-  iv; 


ÊEFORE  THE  WEDDING.  ^^ 

came,  mellow  with  sweet  spring  blossoms  and  siinshAie  and 
thefirst  half  was  over.     The  first  Thursday  in  Jun^  was  to 
be  the  day  of  .days,  not  qiiite  a  fortnight  off  now.     The 
world  had  woke  up  for  her  wedding,  Norinç  thought  snow 
and  dreariness  were  gone,  spring,  in  Eden-Iike  freshness 
and  bloom  was  with  them.     Ail  day  long,  the  birds  sang 
in  the  sunlight  ;  th|  garden  Vas  gay  with  odorous  grasses 
and  blossoms.     In  three  days  more  the  bridpgroom  would 
be  here.to  claim  his  bride,  to  leave  no  more  until  he  bore, 
her  awaybyhis  side.     Yes,  it  was  a  new  Eden.     Kent 
Hill  in  its  spring-tid^  résurrection,  but,  as  once  before.  the 
serpent  was  close  at  hand. 


^ 


--'Y 


\ 

•  \ 


/  ■  •  ■!?!"■ 


'''-,^w^-V": 


'M? 


^ÛJI^ 


¥. 


ê' 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  GATHERING  STQRM. 


V'  ' 
e  last 


at  thé- 


HE  last  week  ^ame— the  last  night  of 

misty  hill-tops  the  silver  half-moon  sailed  ani 
.  .        ,„,    len  gâte  stood   the  pretty  bride  e^Jr  \ 
^-ng  with  eyes  of  drean.y  dark^sf  at   t  myslthl' 
No  Sound  but  the  ^.^unds  of  the  silice  ^Slf 
-ver.,  the  twitte^.^  ^^d  in  m^X  n^^l^ 

Hm     dari*^  ^^f  ^^^  «P^ead  the  wide  fields  of  Kent 

and  crystal^    "^    '""^''"^^  'P^I^S  stars  ., 

Leaning:  on  the  gâte,  stootkj^ne  .A  #ffi^  .^  '  " 
and  paler  tlian  of  X)ld,  4ry,|^^h!'rnM  T^  ""^^ 
rays  but  verv  faTr  «n^  ^m7l^      ^   ^°^'^'  '^^^^^  ™oon- 

to  fte  stany  sky     She  stood  ttere  thinkingof  tte  „e"v 
recède  and  grow  mor.  a^d  m;,;  un^al  «.e  ,eare7rcl^ 


«* 


/^  • 


■^     -    .-  ' 


« 


V 


THE  GATHERING  $TORM. 


79 

Its  novelty  and  brightness  blinded  herno  more-^istance 
had  lent  enchantment  to  the  view— to-night  ^he  o5y  knew 
she  was  aboat  to  marry  a  man  she  did  not  love. 

The  past  arose  before  her.  '  Laurence  Thorndyke's  smil- 
ing,  cynical,  handsome  face  floated  in  the  haze  like  a  vision, 
her  girl'3   fancy  retur|ed   with    tehfold   sweetnéss  -  and 
power.    If  he  were  only  to  be  the  bridegroom  on  Thursday 
next  !  A  passionate  longing  to  see  him  once  more,  to  hear 
his  voice,  fiUed  her  whole  soûl  with   unutterable  désire 
\In  the  moonlight  she  stretched  out  her  arms  involunta- 
hly— in  the  silence  she  spoke.  a  heart-sob  in  every  word  • 
\  "  Laurence  I  "  she  cried,  «  corne  back  !" 
\The  ré^tless  leaves  fluttered  around  her,  thp  wind  touch- 

tMWe         ^""^  ^^^^^  ^^'     ^^^  ^^^"^"^  ^'^^  ^^^"'^ 

rr^u^T"*"^'"  '^^  wl^ispered,   «Laurence!  Laurence! 

IM.fcould  only  see  you  once  more— only  once— if  I  knew 
ted  not  quite  forgotten  me— if  I  could  only  bid  you 
-by  before  we  part  forever,  I  think  everything  would 

be  easjr  after  that."  /       6  u 

Ifad  the  thought  evoked  his  phantom  ? 

Who  ^as,that  coming  along  the  silent  road 
slender  fîguré,  wearing»  a  loose,  light  overcoat, 
bewilderinVly  familiar.     That  négligent,  graceL 
that  uplifty    carriage  of  the   head— surely,  surely "she 

.  "Sl^'r-\  ^^'  ^'^'^'^  ^"""^^^  ^"  breathless  expecta- 
tiofi^her  hpà  apart,  her  eyes  alight.  Nearer  and  nearer 
he  ca^e,  and  khe  face  she  had  longed  to  see,  had  prayed 
to  see,  looked\down  upon  her  once  more  with  the  old 
familiar  smile.    \ 

Laurence  Thorrtdyke  I 

She  leaned_^3&stJthfi,gate^^tU14n  brcathlesrin^ 


So 


NORINE'S  HE  VENGE. 


suT>nse.  and  the  voice  for  whose  sound  she  had  hungereJ 

"  Norine  1  " 

She  rtade  no  answer  ;  in  her  utter  astonishment  and 

of  w?       '/      ""^  '°'""  ^"""^  ^Sain.     Hâve  y^u  no  Word 
of  welcome  for  your  old  friend  ?  "  \ 

Still  she  did  not  speak-still  she  stood  lookin^L  thou^h 

she  never  could  look  enough^only  trembling  aX  nof 

I  hâve  startled  you,"  he  said  very  gentlyf  «  cX^rso 

unexpectedly  upon  you  like  a  ghosï  In   L  3ghT 

But  I  am  no  spirit,  Norine-shake  hands  »  T  ^ 

haniV''"t^  ^''°''  '^'  "^^'"^  S^^^'  ^"d  took  bo^  her 
hands  m  his  warm,  cordial  clasp.  They  were  like  ic/ 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  almost  wildly  upon  his  face  her  Zs 
were  trembling  like  the  lips  of  a  chilS  about  to  c^  ^ 
Won  t  you  speak  then,  Norine  ?  H^ve  I  startled  you 
so  much  as  that?    I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  or  any  one 

I  iad   T'  '"'  '  '''  ''  ^^"^-     ^-y-  hear,  Norry 

I  had   t6  corne.     And  now  that  we^have  met,  NoriZe 

won  t  you  say  you  are  glad  to  see  me  again  >  »  ' 

She  drew  away  her  hands  suddenly-covered  hbr  face 

and  brokemto  a  passion  oftears.     Perhaps  she  had  grow^^^ 

hystencal,  her  heart  had  been  full  before  he  came   a^d 

it  needed  only  this  shock  to  brim  over.     He  opened  th. 

gâte  abruptly  and  came  to  her  side.  ^  ^^ 

Vu    I   ^  f  "P'  ^"^  ^^^  y°"  ^^^  "°^  ^^'^y  I  hâve  corne  i^ 
She  looked  up  at  him,  forgetful  of  Richard  Gilbert  and 
her  wedding  day,  forgetful  of  loyalty  and  truth 


■■€ 


\ 


THE  G  A  THE  RING  STORAf. 


81 

r  would  never  see  you  again.  And  oh,  I  hâve  been  ^ 
misérable— «o  misérable  I  "  • 

_  "  And  yet  you  art  about  to  be  married,  Nori»e  I  >'  At 
<hatreproachfuI  cry  she  suddenly  reme-nberldX  New 
Vork  lawyer,  and  ail  the  duties  o£  her  life.     s|  drew  he^ 

No'rilë"'?"  ^"'"^  *"  ''  "'^"''•'  '»   I^'*"d  Gilbert 
.oL":^:-et:?,?""'"^'^^  "andyo„-,o„aregoing 

.old  yé'ù 'ba"«  "^'"""''  "'  ■»-'''"    i^"»  «»  Oave 

"  Mr.  Gilbert.» 

not  going  to  be  married."  '  ^'  ^  ^™ 

Thn^  ,^^^  *°   ^^  '"^'■"^^'     Not  going- Oh    Mr 
Thorndyke,  don't  deceive  me-don't  >  "  ' 

is  but  ol"''l'^''r'y^"^  ^°"  Norine-why  should  I  ?  There 
5X  uLl'rc  :"^  ^f«^ewi„be4wifelwi,ln.a" 

^or^'T^:tZ2^':  ^  TT^-^^^^-     Ah. 
was.    EverlterMl^îif     'ï'^^'  announcement , 
-«yself  to  forlt  vo„^^  ^''"  '"^'"^  *°  ^^^^ool 


^'i:;. 


■  ) 


■^-• 


l 


^i*  4 


82 


^ORTNE^S  REVENG^E. 


musttellx'ou  or  die    -Tf  ,« 

my  doom  from  your  lin.     riL  w         ""  """^  a»''  h^r 
«other,  an  heiress  she  is,.  aldl  fri  "of"  "^^  '°  ™"'^ 

^0  hat ,he gin I  love  is  bytayll    1^^    t'"'"" ''"''^'y 
"■"  Oot  say  „o,  ,hey  ,ell  L  [u  a\T    l  ^^^^-\^M 

too  late.    you  don't  vou  -r^J,         ^       ^*'*  "°'  *<"i*« 

"e  you  care  only  for  „,e."  **""*'  'P'^"''  »d  t«« 

"Only  fir  you— only  for  voti  i  "  .i„      ■  J  ' 
«nce.  i  love  you  wi.tt  .,[,  ,„,  ^,™  ;,  ,  .f  '  ""<>.  "  O.  Lau. 

"lerewasasoumlasshesii,!  if  ,'i,    i 

.       appeared ,  i„  the  doorJv  i^  h      7     S'"''''  '"'a"  figure 
called  :  ™^^'  '"  ""=  »''™«  her  pleasane  voice 

-  JN^rine.    N„r,-„e ,  ^o„e    i„    ou.  of  '  .he  dew  dear 

■  «oodperfectiy  sffl      fi^"  '"'°  *^''  '"a*  shadb,v,  and 
leafy  gjoom.  ^      '  """"  ^^"«l  ""t  ^«e  'hf  m  i„  ,he  - 

"But  lirst-r  1    .       ■  Laurence,  let  mç  go." 
Of  e.  JZ  nLrCr  T.:±  ^r-V-  '  an. 


î^^;.' 


r-    '-"Â 


* 


*".•» 


»- 


»  ' 


'■  '*  / 

■  ".       f 

- 

.    <   ■•^"'t 

^'  .    i 

■  ■•*., 

-.■^?.*f;  ■ 

1 

? 

■  ^'ii^  •• 

■rV   ^  J 

* 

■  w  «-  -  ''■ 

-.    '1 

•    ■        '   ' 

^i-  /  ••  • 

"«■ 

*,'*W^  # 

■  •  ■  %:>  '^ 

-f-'.îl 

*iî:.. '.*'.■-,:»  JBf..-  : 

'.*■ 

•  *v 

v^; 


THE  GATHEJRJNG  STORM. 


^i 


"  My  darling,  don't  fear— you  are  mine  now,  mine  only 

-  Mine  you  sbàU  reftiain."    His  eye?  glittered  strangely  in 

the  gloom  as  he  said-  %  '    «  We  cannot  meéf  to-morrow  • 

but  we  must  miÈet  to-moirow  night."      •  .'         ' 

.      "No,"    she    fajtered,  /'no^no.    It  wouid  be  wton^/ 

dishpnorable.     And  I  dare  not,  we  would  be  discovered  " 

"  Not  if  you  do  as  i  direct.  What  time  do  you  ail  retire  ? 

Half-past  tén?;v       _      «       ° 

-V    «Mostly.''  .    -^,         .;- 

"Then  at  eleveii,  or  Tialf-past,,  the  coast  is  sure  to  be 
clear.  At  eleven  to-morrqw  night  I  wiU  be  hère  juM  with- 
oul  the  gâte,  and  you  niust  steal  ouj^and  meet  me  ^ 

,      "Laurence!"  b 

,  "You  musj— you  will,  if  you  lovç  mè.  Are  you  not  my 
wife,  or  gding  to  be  in  a  few  days,  which  amountsvto  the 
same  thing.     WiU  Gilbert  stop  hère  ?  " 

"I  don't  know.     Yes,J[  suppose  so." 

*Well,  even  if  he  does  it  wilï  not  matter.  You  can  steal 
out  unheard  and ^^nobserved,  caJt»you  not?" 

"Yes--nQ.    I  don't  know,    Laurence  !   Laurence  !  I 

am  afraid."     >  •  .  - 

'  Of  what  ?  Of  whom>  not  of  me,  Iforine?  " 

She  shivered  a  little,  and  shrank  fwim  hia  .HUiè» 

"  It  seems  so  strange,  so  Jbol<y|o  wiong      I  oi^ht"  not. 

•t  is  wicked— I  don't  know  whafto  dq." 

V    "Then  yoiï  don't  ca^e  for  me  o-t  ail,  Norine  ?  '»     ^x  '    # 
He  knew  howtp  piove  her.  The  rei.roachful  wordéWenài^ 


.1  ' 


/  . 


botherheart.    cSrïrforhimF    He  duubt^  that       ^      «4 
'•  ^Jm  wiîKc&mé^  he  said,  that  exuVnt  gleam  in  his 

e^s  ^m,  «  my  loyal  little  girl  !  I  ha^^e  a  thousand  thlnga-'  , 
^Q  say  to  yod,  and  we  can  talk  pmnterruptedly  thén,  Wheo 
'  was  your  wedding  tobe? "  ^   ,„  %,  '^"4- 


•>»*  * 


..  v-'^ 


^^y^lyi  -.^îin-t^^ii  Ct»,  <-    .b'^M> 


^■«■ 


'     / 


< 


.wyk 


j^» 


«>« 


/J 


M 


84 


mR/NEPS  REVLNGE. 


"NextTÎiursday.' 
"  And  this  is  Sunday  nfeht     t« 
bert  wiJl  be  hère.     You  see  h7  ^r^'''^^''''^^^"  «"- 

«hall  be  my  wife^„orhtr        ™''  '"'  °"  ^^.^^sday  you 

'  voL''7ij::rèétiy^sdH  L"^^  r  ^^"^^'  -"^^i  the 

earthisthechild?  "  '^'  ^^^^^^^^  "where  on 

will  L' hre^lTcd^T  ^^  ^  "  ^--  cried  in  terror,  «  she 

He    ob      ri  ^       "*^  ^°'" 

"P  to\i.e  gâte.    He  ^tiZZtl^^'''  P^'"'  -'' 
Aunt  He„y,  voice  came  .oh™        ^''''^'  '"■'*  '"- 

dew  fafling  ifke  "      '    "'  '"  "'""  ""^  "^^^  and  the 

He  could  not  catch  Norine's  f»;„f        . 
■nore;  and  again  Miss  He^JrT    /        '^P'^'     ^  ^«°"d 

"  Land  o?hopeTlS'l;,f  "'  ™=  ^"rilly  fc,  be  heard. 

^hiterthanthedead     oh"^,t„T-     ''°"^-    ^<'"  «»• 
night-y„„,,  be  laid  upl;  \  t"::^!'°"'  "  -"•"»  af'"  to- 

He  heard  the  house  door  close     Ti.      k 
■*th  the  rustling  trees  and  ,L  k  •  >..      ™  ^^  ""  ^lone 
ke  stepped  out^into  tLe  ,  *u.  ?*H  '  ~""""'  '•=■"■  A» 
«th  ewitant  delight-al^T  f^   S''™^''  ""'^  '^«  ^hone 
lore.  ^       ^'^  '  ^""^  Nonne  I  «/ „ith  h^ppy 


at  the 

t 


«»• 


THE  GATHERING  STORAf.  « 

thc  winning  trump  i„  the  game  ?  You  hâve  baffled"  and 
fo,ed,  and  watched  me  many  a  time,  notably  in  fte  ca"e 
ofLucy  West-when  itcameto  old  Darcy's  ears  U,ro„l 
you,  -"»was  witMna  hair-sbreadthof  dLhenuW  ^Î 
Eveiy  dog  bas  bis  day.    Yours  is  ovcr    ™-       """«  "'• 

■  cbose.o  stop,  Norine  „as  ^p  tb^ .00^1,^:;*^^ 
«■nultuous  heart.     she  had  complained  o£  a  hrâdacbe 
a..dgoneato„,.c-.     The  plea  was  not  altoge.ber  tte 
l.er  bra,„   wa.  wMr,«,g,  her  h,...,  .hrobbing  in"  ^^Z 
mu  ,  hal£  terror  half  deliél.t     He  had  con,e  back  to  hlr" 

race  m  b.   ban^ds,  ^^  ^  te    ^  gb^p  S 
through  ail  her  being^he  was  eo  be  ÈH  mie  I  ^ 

iT/nïr^l^-^bXleJber^TntstT 

^edh^^^by  .e  .indow„^d  si  fh:::^;^::^ ; 

"P  for  it-home.  friena»,  a  good  man>s  tn.,,   her  sol^r! 
Iruth  and  honor?  Wa,  Laurence  Tbomdvke  wonî.  T 
.0  be,  ,han  ail  -^  „orld  ««d.,  mor  "hL  ,h7peacr„7 
l>er  own  comcience.  Richard  Gilbert  loved  W  b?       j  • 
he..  .n„.ed  ^,  ,he  b«,  ,a^  .^^X  S  pr;:^'.  ' 

a Jt 


•T 


«-„ 


/    • 


■  ■^;...y*t.:''.SV^W -  •  -'ii-A-','- 


■K 


96 


* 

IVORWE'S  REVENG^, 


herself  to  be  hk  wîfo     tu-  '  ' 

oV  U,e  M  s  S  Maine  t  7^  ^  *'""'»«  y™''« 

;  .one.of  hfa  voice  sufficientto  Lke  her  fl°"  .''""'"'' 
be  I  .    """=''  ^''«^ll  passion  _th,s  love  she  feit  must 

woHd'wi;  ;s:.ai  tz^tj^TT'-'  «'"-^  *^ 

.long  ;ay  off  flw,  Jt^t^  letd^,  *V""  -^-d  a 

brief  iaurs.     Presen.ly.Rerê  «    a  If  TV  '  '"" 

•  Aun,  Hel.y's  Voice  ouî^ide  sp!ke         '       ""=  ''°°'''  *"'' 

"tcnet"ttrj'rn^';"'*^^f^''^«"'*'"-'" 

«  R,-«oi  f    :    ,'    ^.^""^  "  be  down  directiv  " 

ed  ont  her  taled  cui  •^,;  "î^  '"""'"  ""  f^"'  bras^: 
pallid  face  il  ft^^ass    '       "    ^^  '"'"'""^  '™"'  ""  »"» 

i.y  •  ^":;^s  ir  •"  f  ^  *°"^"'^  ^- 

guiltinmyface."  "'  ""  **"  ^«<*  ""y 

*'':eeTteZg:Se"of  h^'f"^"'"-^  '^™PP-' 
7o„.ew.i.e/t.Ï':    I<^;-f--'^ofHe^^^^ 

told  me  you  were  better."  sne  cned.    "  You 

"I  am  better,  aunty.'    Oh,  pray  don't  mind  „y  looka 


M 


y 


> 


%    %'■ 


THE  G  A  THE  RING  STORM. 


S? 


Last  night's  headache  has  made  me  pale— I  will  be  as  wel 
as  ever  after  breakfast." 

But  bre^kfast  was  only  a  pretence  as  far  she  was  con- 
cerned  and  the  day  wore  on  and  the  fair,  young  face  kept 
its  palhd,  startled  look.  She  could  do  nothing,  neither 
read  or  sew,  she  wandered  about  the  house  like  a  restles, 
spint,  only  shrinking  from  that  Bluebeard's  cbamber 
where  ail  the  wedding  finery  was  spread.  ^ow  wiis 
she  to  meet  Mr.  Gilbert,  and  the  fleetW  hours  weTe 
hurrymg  after  one  another,  as  hours  neW  had  hurried 
before. 

_  The  afternoon  sun  dropped  low,  thç  noises  in  the  fields 
grew  more  and  more  subdued,  the  cool  evening  wind 
swept  up  from  the  distant  sea..  Norine  sat  in  the  wicker 
cha-r  .h  the  garden  under  the  old  appê-tree  and  waited- 
waited  as  a  doomed  prisoner  niight  the  cominj;  of  the  ex- 
vcut.oner.     A    book  lay  idie  on   her   lap,  she   could   not 

inr;  '    \r/     r  "f '"^-^^i^ing-waiting,  andschool- 
ing  herself  for  the  ordeal. 

Presently,  far  ofï  on  the  white  road,  ke  up  a  cloud  of 
dust,  there  came  the  rolling  of  wheels,  she  caught  a 
gl.mpse  of  a  carriage.  She  clasped  her  hands  together 
and  s  rove  to  steady  herself.  At  last  he  was  hère 
Out  of  the  dusty  cloud  came  a  buggy,  whirlihg  rapidly  u^' 
to  the  gate-o^t  Qf  the  Buggy  came  Richard  Gilbert  hig 
eager  face^irned  towards  her.  His  quick  eye  had 
Z.f  f^''  '^'  '''''"P  '°  "^""^  ^^^'^^^'^  i"  ^he  very 

t:^^t:^tL.  ''"'''''''  ''-''''  ^"^  -'  -^^^ 

"Mydear,dear.girll  Myown  Norine  l' how  glad  I  am 


-*» 


<  ' 


tS    >..'  ■" 


!'4  ik'^y  ..'•^''-^    # 


8È 


m 


ff 


t-< — 


,^^0/!W£S    KEVtJ^fGE.. 


">d  cold  by  wms,  and  „ot  darU,  „  ""T'  '""»«  "<>' 

««'ing-oh,  such  a  fais"  tl't^  ''''""''  "^  '>'»locfa,  and 

1^-gIung;  "am  I  such  an  og  e  thil      "  ''^'^  '°™  ^^'d 

He  drew  her  aand  teneafh  h,-=      '      ^°"  ''«'"  •'  " 
who  assumes  a  nght  and  td  1      '\'  ""^  ""=  ^"  »'  one 
-    «ère  alone  togethfr  ;■„  ,.   ^''  '^'  *«  house.     Thêv 

oa«her„andf4"  ,t  S^'^d',''"' "^'  "^»^  ^ 
answer  his  questions.  She  couldt  "^  '"  ""»  »<» 
was  watching  her  aiready  ^,1^1?,  "",*,  '"™^  *«.  he 

!««  proposed  a  walk.  Sne'f  ï^  '^'"'  '^^  «r.  Gil- 
«-"oue  ^,h  him  ineo  ,he  h„te,  '^r^'^^'^'  -'"' 
The)«le  primrose  hght  „as  fad  "''  P'*'^''"  ""''«ght 

ansT^rising  wind  4  .ôssi^   ï^  °"'  °'  *'"■«'"■«  »ky 

lonesome  road,  wi,h  thJ^t  ^  '"^"'«1   alone  the 

andgrayer,hr;ugh.heth",Tr;i^''  ^P-"S  .^a^      ^ 
•^ows  gra^ed.    ao«,«tini  ,  Vife  d"^*^'  *'^»  "•«  1"^ 

f  ••»  t  with  na,»eless  d.eâd  bût  ?^  '""'*  •«"•.  and 
'^^' rbing  wmajin  ,he  whTsperi"!  '"*  *"  "»  ™'«  » 
»'oom.,,,wrhtao,„ha,Cs^„lr''"'  "*=  "'^'"■-« 


THE  GATHERING  STORAf.    ' 


■     Vorfs  .tateliest  avenue  w     ^yJ^^^riJ"  ^'J 
.,:    .ng  tour  would.be  eo  Mo,.rea.  a/d  NfagaTu'ni;  s^J  ' 
had  some  other  choice.  .But  she  wodd  be  îhd  iTZ 
once  more  the  quaint,  grày  dear  o\aV^  f 
wouldshanot?      -,  ^'  Canadian  town- 

y"■^  ^'''  'ï  "°"^^  '"^  '*«'"*'»  ?«'  Montréal.    No.  she 
had  no  other  choice."       She  sliivered  as  she  s^U  t 
bokmg  far  oiï  with  blank  eyes  tha,  dare  not  „ee    h  ' 
'N,agaraVomd  do  ve:y  well,  ail  places  wera  a  ike t  ht 

Something  in  her  tone  and  manner,  in  her  want  olC 
ères,  and  enthusiasm,  hur.  him.  More  silen.Iy TaLiév 
hadcorae  they  recrossed  the  darkenins  fields  Th.  ^ 
was  rising  a,  Uey  drew  near  the  house  Lrdn  Jt 
up  through  dark  and  jagged  Couds.  She  parisudde^v 
for  a  moment,  with  her  paie  face  turned  towards  Tt  Mr' 
G.  bert  paused^  too.  looking  at  the  lowering  sky 

Listen  to  the  wind,"  he  said.    "  We  win  h,L      i, 
tomorrow.»  "=  »"1  hâve  a  change 

Zt^T^'^^^^'^'-'^-^^^'^'^  ^o»  <"  voice.  "  Yes. 
Hie  stonn  is  very  near."  ^ 

"  And  you  are  shiverlirg^  in  this  raw  night  wùid      Yon 
-  whue  and  cold  as  a  spirit,  .y  darling'    cZe*  J^" 

y  ature  m  the  keepmg  room,  but  very  grav.  .n^ 


90 


^5 


M, 


^ 


I^CfRTNEPS  RE  VENGE 

*  ? 


Mr.  Gilbert  coûldJin     ".'f !  """"^  '^^y-  ""'" 
longer.     ,,,  ""^  ""^  ^^^dening  sweetness  no 

qutat'-mU  nTsir"""=-°'^'  *^  ''-^."  he-said 

uitogetherdepL'ed.    M,o„i;tiS;  "f"'''''^  ""^  "<>' 
retire."  ^      ""'  •""%  excuse  me,  1 1,\\\ 

She  ,got  up  as  she  spofce,  lit  a  iam„       j    V 
goodnight,  was  gone.  P'  "''  "'*  »  brief 

It  was  not  yet  ten  o'clock  hnf  ^fc. '• 
ment  to  linger  „ow      Mr  rilh  ""  "ttle  indues.. 

tatigued,  toofc  his  lighf  and  dr^"'^"'"  '°  being'rather.\ 
ten  ail  were  M,their  SLs  L  ^  '''•  '  ^^o^ojalf-past 
for  the  night.  ^ ^^'Z^:^:^^^^-^ 
Norine  sat  Ather  window'  ter  lirtt  Vf  .T  ""'• 
ne  of  Richard  Gilbert's  nll  J'?L'^^^'''  ""  -^ 


\one  of  RichaTd  G  ib^^is  f  '  •  t'^''  ""''  "^ 
before  her,  ga.i„g  eut  in  oT^L"  ""l^^^'^''^^-)  «Pen 
ing.  Her  hands  ,„ere  tighrt/^Lj^?'!'""  *"* 
tearlesssobsshoçkherattime,,c  "^^  ^^"'*"'  ^"™'. 
Jer  soûl,  and  yet  not  foror;in"trd™r  r^"''?''' 
drawingfromhérttyst.  But shLoufd n„, flt  '  t!>1  '*" 
Thorndyke—no  no  I  Pv^r,,  k       .        ,^  "^  ^^^n  Laurence 

out  shelould  not  s  e  Sd  :;"X'  """"  ""  "''" 
even  thinking  of  it_a  ^mL        '  *^  "  "«'<*  f" 

but  She  woullonly  go^„Tay  Sr:;eœ:r'^'srr''°^ 
h.-,  but  she  belonged  to  another  „aa  ;  U  l^lÙld  t^ 


\ 


♦   . 


''^^^ 


^ 


THE  GATHÊRING  STORM.  -, 

to  die  than  to  betray  him.  She  would  bid  Laurence 
Thorndyke  go  to-night,  and  never  see  him  more,  a 
.  The  threatening  storm  seemed  drawing  very  near  The 
«  moon  was  half  obscured'  in  Wnse  clouds  ;  the  wind  tore 
around  the  gables  ;  the  trà^  tossed  their  long,  green 
arms  wildly  aloft.  Within  theXuse  profoundest  silence 
reigned. 

Half-past  eleVen  !  the  hôur  of  tiyst  ;  she  seemed  to'count 
the  moments  by  the  dull  beating  of  her  heart     She  rose 
up,  extmguished  her  lamp,  put  on  a  waterproof,  drawing 
the  hood  over  her.head,  took  hér  slippers  in  her  ha  J 
and  opened  the  door.    She  paused  ând  listened,  half  choked 
by  the  loua  throbbing  of  her  heart,  by  guilty,  nameless 
dread.     Ail  was  »till— no  spund  but  the  sîirging  of  the 
trees  without  ;  no  glimmer  of  light  fi'om.  any  room.     She 
stole  on  tiptoe  along  the  passage,  dow^he  stairs,  ahd 
into  the  lower  hall.     Noiselessly  she.  uMked  the  door 
opened  it,  and  was  eut  in  the  windy  ëark,  under  the  gloom 
of  the  trees.     Orie  sécond's  pause,  her  br^ath"  coming  in 
fnghtened  gaspsfÔien  she  was  flitting  away  in  the  chill  night 
^vlnd  to  meet  her  lover.     She  reached  the  gâté,,  leaned 
over  it  eagerly,  straining  her  eyes  throu^.the  gloonk 

'  Laurence  1  "  she  said,  in  a  tremulous  whisber.     "  Lau- 
rence, I  hâve  corne."        -  , 
"My  own  brave  little  giri  !  " 

A  tall  figure  stepped  forward  frora  bei^ath  à  tree.  two 
^warm  hands  clasped  hers.  ir .     ^^ 

"NQrry  you're  a  trump,  by  Jove  !  Corne  out  at  rnce. 
Allisfeady.     You  must  %  with  me  to-night.'» 

But  she  shrank  back-^hocked,  terrified,  yet  lo^ging 
with  ail  her  soûl  to  obey.  ^  ^ 


<\: 


^ië^^FTïïèWf 


1 


'^^' 


•  yr  "' 


m- 


92 


^^i?/^^'^  yp^p^^^^ 


-■_-* 


nevôr  !  O  Lawrenr*»  f  t  », 

by^reverl"  '  ^  ^'"'  *=°"^^  ^^^^  to  bid  you  good 

His  answer  was  to  laugh  aloud      vr-    c 

-nough  at  ail  times,  had  primed  h       T.  ^^«^"dyke.  bold 
and  men.  "^^"^^y-  ^^  face  and  defy  devils 

"  Good-by  forever  J  »  he  reoeated      «  v       . 
ly,  my  darling.      Corne  out  he7e  N^rryZ'''  '"'''  ^°  ^^'^■ 
no  notion  of  talking  with  a  five  hf    ?        ""^  °''^'      ^'^^ 
So  old  Gilbert  came  ^1  .    .        ''^  ^"'"  ^^^ween  us. 
dici^'t  he?    By  ;"b  terr:^:^     "^''^"^  ^^'«  ^^-noon 

J^aughed  recklessiy  a  oud  at  .j  'î,^  ^""'"• 

-■^"^  her  out.  '  ^^  ^^  ^P^»ed  the  gâte 

change  ail  that.     Before  ml?  •     ^         "'•    No,nolw4'll 
«■^ely  in  Boston,  and  beforT,'"^*  '™=  ^°"  """^  '  "«'  "« 

riorida,and  I  the  mosf  M     f  '"J  ^"'" '™'»  ^aine  to 

ready-here  are      "horst"!^' ? ''"''=^°°"'^-     ^»  « 
'■>  «  hour,  and  then-ilet?h»         ''W-"'»  «loop  sails 

brandy,  had  set  Mr  Ta"    °?tk"T'''°^  *«  ^««h 

d-wherwithhim  h^edlessôfhe??^^,'''^'''"'^     He 
.protest.  '       ^'^^^  °f  ''«■^  "mggles,  her  passionate 

'oœre'^î'o?e\;?:=;;  •'-''; -X-i-^^^^ 
chiM's   vaIenti,™,'d„;.r?tr'T  ""^^o-nd^  like  a 
foroIdDick  Gilbert  V  f""''  ''""  ''°"''  «^are  that 

"'"•  ^^  "'<»''' go  ?Kyoudon't  ru  shoot 


Wrfyou  good 

was  flushed 
rndyke,  bold 
»  brandy  for 
I  defy  devils 

lat's  so  Jike- 
'  out.  IVe 
)etween  us. 
>  afternoon 
be  to-mor- 
nd  âown. 
d  the  gâte 

im»  solemn 
old  as  the 
noi  wè'Il 
I  I  will  be 
you'll  be 
Maine  to 
.    AU  is 
)op  saiJs 
1" 

French 
Id.  He 
ssionate 


r//E  GATHERING  STORM.  q, 

myself  before  morning— I  swear  I  will  !  You  don't  want  me 
to  shoot  myself,  do  you  ?  I  can't  live  without  you,  Norry,  and 
I  don't  mean  to  try.      .\fter  we're  marri^Ad  the  hôney- 
mopn's  over,  l'il  fetch  you  back  to  the  oiaKcs  if  you  like 
upon  iny  sacred  honor  I  will.     Not  a  word  now,  my  little 
angel,  I  won't  listen.     Of  course  youVe  scruples,  and  ail 
that.     I  think  the  more  of  you  for  them,  but  you'll  thank, 
me  for  not  listening  one  day.     Here's  the  carriage— get  in,' 
get  in,  get  in  I  " 
He  fairly  lifted  her  in  as  he  spoke. 
Stunned,  terrified,  bewildered,  she  struggled  in  vain.     He 
only  laughed  aloud,  caught  up  the  reins,  and  struck  the 
horse  with  the  whip.     The  horsè,  a  spirited  one,  darted 
forward  like  a  flash  ;  there  was  a  girl's  faint,  frightened 
scream. 

"  O  Laurence  !  let  me  go  V* 

A  wild  laugh  drowned  it— they  flew  over  the  ground 
hke  the  wind.  Norine  was  gone  !  His  exultant  singing 
inmgled  with  the  crash  of  the  wheels  as  they  disappeared. 

"She  is  woni  Aey  are  gone  over  bush,  brake  and  s-^r; 
TheyU  hâve  fleet  steeds  that  foUow,  quoth  young  Lochinvar.»» 


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Photographie 

Sdenœs 

Corporation 


23  WIST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  M580 

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.■4Aik'-  '    ë* 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


FLEDi 

but  he  d,d  „ot  go  ,o  sleep.     He  lay  awake  so 

.  ^^S"'"? '''■«scd  himself  parflv  and  ,,M^ 

mthe  darkness  by  Ms  ope„  cha.be/.^^^rwTû 

What  was  the  matter  with  Norinp  ?     w.  ^    u 
had  safd-b„t  to  eyes  sharpe„Vdr-Lf  .™et'  '"" 
looked  much  more  like  heartache       Th?'       !  i"""'  " 
the  faltering  voice,  «he  pallid  cheel  tle\-T    7"' 
^êtokened  so.ething  dLper  t::1ellt'"  wf/T 
at  he  elevemh  hour  repenting  her  marriagei    Wa      t^ 
ft.II  m  love  with  Laurence  Thomdyke  '    Was  ^,  „ 
■ng  for  the  freèdom  she  had   resjed      wT,  ,t    '^"" 

tbo„/""rii^rt;r:cr.rjtr  ii^"  " 

repeLg^ofherL^Stf^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

snall  have  it  barlf      Tf  t  i«    jl  ''cu,  inen,  sne 

»d  HeavenroJUt:*^r:„";t~a?i";' 

-ta.  „an  canno.,  stil,  I  „du.d  res^  be"     ^^^Lt 


"iîtfc4îâ«  .ïfc-iih     j>i 


^-« 


Vx 


FLED! 


95 


shafl  ever  conie  to  me  as  wife  with  her  heart  in   the 
keeping  of  another  man.     Better  a  thousand  times  to  part 
now  than  to  part  after  marriage.     I  hâve  seen  quite  too 
much,  in  my  professional  capacity  of  marrying  in  haste 
,  and  repentmg  at  leisure,  to  trj-  it  myself .     I  will  speak  to 
her  to-morrow;  she  shall  tell  me  the  truth  fearlessly^nd 
frankly  while  it  is  not  yet  too  late,  a«d  if  it  béas  I  dread 
why,  then,  I  can  do  as  better  men  hâve  done— bear  my 
pam  and  go  my  way.     Poor,  pretty  little  Norry  !  with  her 
drooping  face  and  pathetic,  wistful  eyes— she  longs  to  tell 
me,  I  know,  and  is  afraid     It  is  a  very  tender  heart.  a 
veryromantic  little  heart,: and  who  is  to  blâme  her  if  it 
turns  to  him,  young  and  handsome  as  she  is  herself  in- 
stead  of  to  the  grave,  dull,  middie-aged  lawyer.     And  'yet. 
rt  will  be  very  hard  to  say  good-by." 

He  broke  down  for  a    moment,  alone  as  he  was.     A 
great  flood  of  recollection  came  over  him— the  thought  of 
partmg-now-was  bitter  indeed.     A  vision  rose  before 
him-Norine  as  he  had  seen  her  first,  standing  shyly  down- 
cast  m  the  train,  her  dark,  childliké  eyes  glancing  im- 
plonngly  around,  the  sensitive  color  coming  and^Sg  in    ■ 
her  mnocent  face.     She  arose  before  him  again  h  he  had 
seen  her  later,  fiushed  and  downcast,  sweet  and  smiling 
bendmg  over  Laurence  Thorndyke,  with  "  Love's  youn^ 
dream  "  written  in  every  line  of  her  happy  face.     Again 
as  he  had  seen  her  that  day  when  he  spoke,  pale,  startled. 
troubled,  afraid  to  accept,  afr^d  to  refuse,  and  faltering 
out  the  words  that  made  him  so  idiotically  happy,  wifh 
lier  little,  white,  handsome  face,  keeping  its    startled 
pallor. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  yes,  yes,  I  see  it  ail.,    She  said  'yes  ' 
becausejt  is  not  in  her  yielding,  gentle,  child's  heart  to 


>■ 


fea..       •     ■.iJH^^m.ti-{t'.'jt)»4l 


.fc* 


96 


■JVO/i/Àr£rs  REVENGE. 


%;'-'^. 


she  will  answer  Tnd  if  hl!  '  k        ™"  ^  ""'  »P«''  »-><) 

KO-,  and  «igM  raeu..;Tutl  rifLT  ™ -'"^  °' 
worstfatethatcanbefallvoM  r^  •.        ^'"°  '^  ">« 
Helen  Holmes  wiû  bfhl  Se"    '"  "'"  '"™*'  "«" 
Harki  was  that  a  Sound  ?    He  broke  nff  h- 

He  broke  off  abruptly  again.    Wa^  JB* 
down  m  the  gloom  to  ehelate  >  ilS^lr   !!"*  """"S 

the  dusk,  borne  on  fl,n„Vu,e:''-    ^'«"'^  «"ough 
far-off  Sound  of  a  la^h        '  "^^  *°  ''™  *»  '«■". 

lonely  spà  for  mirth  "  ^       ^^'^^'  ^'^  °^^  ^«^  and 

H«.  so^e  eue  s.a,tbi,y  U   ^tu^U  S' 


*;.:f-rf_- 


\  .     'f 


/    • 


FLF.Df 


97 


the  soughin^  „i„d,  „o,fi„g  eLt  o'net       '"'*'"^'' 

deltrii^T  T  ^'""'^  *<'  table  was  laid  for  two    . 

it  is  «  r.    .     ^■.  r^  J^""  °"'**  '  wake  any  apoIoCT  •  ' 
H     î^  ^  '™"  breakfast  for  two  as  for  0»^^' 

y,  Petore  long.    Glogmy  sort  qf  4y  no»,  aia't  it  r 


«-»àffît«it.j''' 


■i>-r 


^* 


r 


98 


ATOJIINE'S  HE  VENGE. 


-*/' 


^Not  yet.    She  ain't  often  lazy  o'  raornings,  ain't  Nonv 
^ther.  Jeu  wait,  though.     m  hâve  hef  downTn  tel' 

'         Ile  looked  at  her  as  though  to  say  somethîng,  chan^ed 
h.sm,ndsuddenly,andtookseat.     mL Kent  left  the rofm 
Five  minutes  passed.     Then  she  came  rushing  down  Te 
staxrvand  back  to  ^  side,  ail  white  andfrightted 

Mr.  Gilbert,  Norine's  not  in  her  room  !     Her  bed  was 

pressing  her  hand  hard  over  her  heart.       'Tm  "  she  said 
pant.^  "l'm  very  fooHsh,  I  knc,  but  it  ha^s'  j!:L"me' 

He  rose  to  his  feet.  He  kriew  it  then  !  Aswellashc 
^verkne,i,,„  the  after  time.  Richard  Gilbert  knew  t  al 
at  that  momettt,  Norine  had  fled.  ^ 

JI^^^  she  then,who  left  the  house^ast  nighV  he 
«aid^in  a  hushed  voice  ;  "  and  it  was  a  n^an's  laugh  1  Was 
It— My  God  !  Was  it— »  ^ 

tho^ght!'"^^'''^'  ""^'"^  ^^''^  ""''^  '^^  ^°™  «^  that 
:  I"  Call  your  brothers,"  he  said,  his  voice  ringing,  his  face 
settingwhite  and  stern  as  stone.  «We  muf^  slrch  for 
her  at  once  At  ail  costs  we  must  find  her-must  brin^ 
^id^Hn^h^e^  ^--  ^-^  ^--1    I  ^ 

"Fledl"         ^  / 

«  Fled-run  away  from  home,  for  feâr  of  manying  me. 

Don  t  you  understand,  Miss  Kent  ?    Call  your  brothers.  I 

jiay  eveiy  minute  may  be  worth  a  life-or  more  I    QuiclU  " 

1^^  pbeyed-stunned,  stupefied  by  the  shock,  the  horror 


*?^^-|.;./ 


jllv^M^t. 


;<% 


FLED. 


^' 


99 


er  her  amaze  The  two  men  rushed  wildly  in  frightened 
bythe:rs.ster's  incohérent  words.  Rapidly^Lrif  ^"1 
ard  Gubert told  them  what  he  had  hea'^-d  L  n i'hMoM 
them  even  whaf  he  feared  most.  ^^ 

"  Thorndyke  lias  corne  back,  and  .either  persuaded  her 
to  run  away  ^^ith  him  or  forcibly  abducted  her       l  fe! 

plamly  as  I  hear  my  own  voice  now     Th«r?  •  ^  l 
and  le.  us  be  off.      Better  she  were  dead  .hanTft  h^"  ' 

JeXrst  re*,LTr„,fd  r-  ^ 

.ha.  so.ei.in,  a.r„,  J'h;^^:^  ^^    \~:^ 

«onne-l,.ile  Nome,  who  but  yes.erday  seemed  .o  her  al 
a  young  innocent  child  «^"ica  co  ner  as 

hrrwofur:r^"'----^e^-^o 

Gifbërtt  if'  '""^  *"  ■"''""'"'^  ''^'y  '«"■^"«l  in  Rioha«l 
re  «r  Brr^T^"  ^  ^■''•'"'"S  "-""•  than'  as  a 
to!  w     ^         J^^*^  afterward-horribly-ioKiay  he  was 

r  me  Bourdon  was  lost  .o  himforever  ;  dumbly  he  feh  tl»t 

b:.ir L^^eiri^xr ^«^  -^  -  ^  ^ 

The  two  men  acted  passively  under  his  orders-aied 
qumes  and  deschpùon.  and  the  rl„v  .■.^-i,  ^  {^,^ 


'*-^^-, 


H-âltiJ  '^^  'JÎAi  W  V-«i*!t 


/■"  >   ■  v"-;-!'.' 


100 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 


■-*, 


"No,"he  said;  "  so  far  as  he  could  recollect,  no  two 
parties  answering  the  description,  had  left  by  the  earliest 
traiîvthat  morning." 

Then  Mr.  Gilbert  went  bacjcward,  and  tried  the  rems- 
ters  of  the  various  hôtels  for  the  narae  of  Thorndyke      It 

w!l  solvT"'  '"'"  "'  °'*''  ''''''  ^"'^^^  the  question 
"  Thar  hain't  ben  nobody  hère  answèrin'  to  that  air  » 
said  the  Down-Ea^  innkeeper  ;  «but  thar  hes  ben  a  ch^ 
callm'  himself  Smith^John  Smith.  That  may  be  thecove 
you  want  Likely's  not,  ye  know,  if  he's  ben  up  to  any 
of  his  larks  he  would  givé^a  false  name,  ye  know.  He 
came  SaturdaynigM-stai^Sunday  and  M^day,  paid  S 
b^n  last  evenm',  and  made  himself  scarce.  Shouldn't  be  a 
mite  surpnsed,  now,  if  he's  t4ie  rooster  you'^e  after.» 
Descnbe  him,"  the  lawyer  said,  briefly, 

tose?TaIir^^^°'''^"^">'""^'^'^        ^  ^^'^  ^-^ 
W.1  K  .   ""  ^""^  ^^^'""^'  ^^^  ^l^thes,  a  moustache 

bluèish  eyes,  and  sorter  light  hair-a  swell  young  chap 
sech  as  we  ain't  used  to  in  our  house  "  ^' 

J|Thomdyke  !  »    the    lawyer    muttered,    bçtween    his 

until  after  nighifall.  Then  he  started  off  afoot,  and  i 
was  past  eleven  when  he  got  back.  Ail  day  MondTy  he 
loafed  about  ^s  room  the  same  way,  and  on  A^ay^n. 
nin ,  as  I  said,  he  pàid  his  bill,  got  a  buggy  somewhere 
«id  drove  off.  And  I  calk'late,  s^C  heTbeen  a  d  ^k! 
ui ,  he  kinder  looked  and  talked  that  way.  That's  ail  I 
Icnow  about  Mr.  John  Smith.»  ^ 

They  telegraphed  along  the  line,  but  without  success  i 
Nothing  satisfactory  could  be  discovered.    ,Itwas  noo„l 


»? 


V      r^    « 


i-w  . 


>3.'^ 


'    -( 


FLED. 


101 


"I  will  not  retum  with  you,"  he  said,  decisivclv     " T 
-1  go  on  .0  Boston.    I  am  posiUve  he  wi  1  ,aTe  henhere 

Meantime,  you  will  leavp  n^  o*^  i<t«^cner  mère, 

fugitives  bJe."  ''°"'  unturned  to  track  th« 

"^'11  go  with  you  to  Boston  "  saîH  TTn^i^  t>     t. 

■But  IVonne  was  not  back      Th^  j,^., 

taken  her  by  force  ^f  '^''-*'  ""»'°  «-ad 

M  eve^  station  fn,^i:^t'e  mal  7?  ^'""^  ^  ^"''"• 
description  given      sfl  ^"""^  ™^°  answering  the 

impossible  S    en-em^r  rr  ""'  f"  """^^^  "  "»'  ' 
rain  and  raw  east  w"c  L  Wr'd'f  ?"  '»  '^"»« 


,'/ 


^■:i; 


u-Wk,  i: 


^  ^  .-     j  &      -%*  5'^,  -/     ^        I 


CHAPTER  IX. 


il 


MKS.    tAURENCB." 


n;  WM  eleven  o-clock  on  theWednesday  mom 

■  ing  foUowing  that  eventfui  Monday  night     In 

an  upper  room,  a  private  parlor  o£  a  Boston 

BomA^-r^^ÏT"^-  '°  ='"^'«J'<=Mr,was  Miss  Norihe 

b^l^Lr     1        ""''"  ""'  "'°">'''S'  ^"'l  '"  *^  hôtel 

Atthe  preseStntoment  Miss  Bourdon  isalone.   Herdark 
ace  .sverypalcher  eyelids  are  red-from  much  "eept 

And  yet  she  ,f  „ot  really  very  unhappy.  Is  she  not  w  A 
Laurence?  Before another hour  passes  will  shenotbe  to 
w.fe?  andwhatistheloveof  aun,oruncIe.What  thtwend! 

that?    Truth  to  tell,  the  first  shock  of  consternation  at 
^er  enforced  flight  over,  Norine  had  tound  torgivenereasy  " 
She  was  only  seventeen,  remember;  she  was  intensel/Ji 

pris  hke  bold  lovers.;  It  was  a  veiy  dating  «»,*  d,„a,-„ 
thtscarryrng  heroff,  quite  like  something  in  a  laft  «Z^ 
novel,  and  with  his  tender,  persuasive  Voice  in  h"  ÏÏ?[ 


\-:; 


^AfRS.  LAUkENCE:' 


103 


his  protecting  arm  about  her  waist,  with  her  own  heart 
pleidinglor  him,  Norine  was  driven  away  a  notunwilling 
captive.  ^  \. 

"I  hâve  arrangea  everything,  my  pet,"  said  Mr.  Thorn- 

dyke  ;  "rooms  are  engaged  at  the  W- House,  Boston,  and 

â  cleiical  friémi  of  mkie  is  to  perform  the  ceremony  ^ry 
niuch  on  the  quiet.    You  don't  object  to  being  married  in* 
a  hôtel,  parlor,  and  by  a  Congregati6nalis)t  a>inister,  do 
you  ?    By-and-by  we'll  take  a  run  over  the  iJordeV  ^d  Save 
the  thiiigdone  over  agairi  in  the  sacredprecincts  of  Notre 
Dame  de  Montréal,  if  you  like.    Jiist  at  présent  everything 
must  be  sub  rosâ,  my  dafling.     The  old  boy— I  mean  my 
respected  uncle   Darcy— will  eut  up  deuced  rougl^you 
know,  when  he  first  cornes  to  hear  it     rfe  'expects  me  to 
matry  his  pet,  Nellie  Holmes  ;  so    does  Miss  Nellie,  if 
the  truth  must  be  told.     So  I  Would  haye  done,  too,  if  fàte 
and  a  broken  limb  had  not  thrown  me  upon  your  protec-  « 
tion.     And  from  that  hour,  my  darling,  my  fate  was  sealed. 
Of  ail  the  eyes,  blue,  black,  brown,  gr.e%n,  or  gray,  for  kill- 
ing,  Wholesale  slaughter,  commend  me  t6  those  of  a  fair 
Canadian.     So  you  see,  Norry,  we  will  be  married  Wed-/^ 
nesday  morning  nice^n  the  quiet,  and  we'll  go  to  a  place 
l've  engaged,  ovç|Ajèlsea  wy,  down  by  the  'sad  sea 
waves,'  to  spend  thelcAieymooiW  And  there  for  one  bless- 
ed  month  we'll  forget  ail  the  uncles  and  aunts,  ail  the  law- 
yers  andheiresses  in  Christendom,  and  'do' love  among 
the  roses.    You  forgive  me  for  carrying  you  off  in  this 
right  knightlyfashion— you  do,  don't  you,  Nony?    Ah  !  I 
know  you  do  ^  but  look  up,  my  own  love,  and  tell  me  so, 
and  so  make  my  happîness  complète." 

Witli  a  little  fluttering  sigh  Norine  obeyed,  clingiM 
close  to  her  herô'4  sid<î  in  the  darkness.  /     • 


ï  'AJ .a,       j  iB? iiit. 


'■    \^ 


là^' 


^0/i?SrE^^ /iEyEjVaE.' 


(o  me,  aJways    al^ays.  and  theywill  ,hi„k,  „h  yes,  U.» 
-  »"|; 'h'nk  »uch  dreadful  thingj'  of  me  now."  • 

.       _     "«yi'lforgetand.forgive.neverfear.Norry.     FeoDl/-. 
^Iways  corne  roand  when  ftéy  can't  do  an^thing  eUe     oî 
cou^e  y„„  shall  „ri.e  to  U;em-of  course  you  s' al.  do  for 
the  future  precsely  as  you wish,  and  Iwiltiuly  e«st  to  t^ 
fil  your  commands.     But  not  just  yet,  you  knoj^;  1  u„m 

hLt.,  Tr^""'' ''"''   ""^'^    Because   my  pët  I 
haven  t  a  dollar  in  the  world  of  myown,  exc«^t  m*  Tllow 
ance  from  him,  anTklcan.t  afford  to  offenShTm   4u  ni" 
soon  br,ng  him  round.     l.t  him  see  you  We,  and  a 

whocould  résistera.  "  J'""ng, 

AJl  this  was  very  delightful,  of  course  ;'  and  in  such  rose- 

^  °';d.  ■■omance-flavored  talk,  the  time  sped  on   Norine's 

ga^e     Shewas  mth  Laurence  ;.she  wa,  nevèr.to  part 
from^im  more.    AU  life  held  of  rapture  „a,  sald  for'he 
,  m  that.     It  was  rathet-  a  drawback,  cerfainly  that  she 
m.ght  nottell  them  athome  ofher  fel  city  at  once  bu\  ste 

-ould  justdrop  them  a  line  from  BsitonV  s^y  Lhe  :« 
»afe  and  „ell  andhappy,  that  they  were  not  to  »or^  aS 
h»,  and  to  beg  Mr.  Gilbert's-poor  Mr.  Gilbert'^W 
That  much  Laurence  wouia  consent  to,  of  course.    To  b^ 

w^tl  "  °'".'?'"'  ^^^  Con^'g^-n^ist  MWstt 
cLdtnneh  T  '"°'  "  «i^-wb^k.  to  a  little  French 
Canadienne,  but  one  must  not  expert  unalloyed  earthly 
oappmess.  And  had  not  Laurence  said  they  would  Jo 
«ne  dj^  ,0  Montreal-dear  old  Montréal,  Ldt  S 
mamed  m  Notre  Dame?     Then  she  wou^d  ^it  aJS 


^^ 


'> 


I .,  .-«y;'- 


"  MHS.  LA  urence:' 


105 


\  ' 


Hetty   and  ijUrrcle   Reuben.;  then   shc   would  go  to  New 
York  and  pà-ad  with  Mr.  Darcy  for  her  beloved  Jui.b.n.d, 
and  Me    L)|rcy  would   grant   that   pardon,    and   then— 
what  then?  i  Well,  n6thing  then,  of  course,  only  live  and 
be  hàppy.forfver  after  !    The  sibop,  in  which  Mr.-  Thotiî 
dyke  hacT  en^aged  passage,  was  ready  to  sail.    Narine  waa 
c^nsigpfed  tope  car^  ^  captain's^wife   fbr   the   trip, 
and  was  sooniiso  utt©<^prt)strate  Wx\Ai  tnarde  mer,  that  love' 
and  Laurence|  were  forgotten.  ' 

To  rell  the:truth,  Mr.  Thomdyke  was  miserajjly  sea-sick 
himself  ;  but  ^his  mode'  of  travel  had  been  forced  upon  him 
by  the  exigeAcies  o^|he  case.  The  pursuers  must  be 
thrown  oflf  the  track.  Gijbeft  would  surely  suspect  an* 
foUbw  ;  if  they  went  by  rail,  he  would  inevitably  hunt  them 
down.  So,  of  necessity^  he  chose  the  sloop,  and  witii -^ 
he^d  wind  and  drîVing  rain,^pent  Monday  night,  Tuesdây, 
and  Tuesday  night  sea-sick  afid  prostrate.  Wednesday 
j_  mornmg  came  and  they  w€«e  in  Bostoo.     It  came  iapour- 

mg  raiii  and  leaden  sky,  arfd  the  ^)leak  easterly  wind  your  ^ 
-     ^stoniati^^reads.     They  drove  to  thehotef,  Miss  Bourdon 
dfeâdfully^shamedof  her  ofd  waterprooî,  and  ascended' 
totheirprlvateparlor.     Mr.  Thprndyke  ordered  breakfast 
tô  be  served  hère  àt  once,  and  both  partook  of  that  repast 
when  it  came,  witli  very  excellent  appetites.     Mr.  Thom, 
4yke  had  had  some  more  brandy,  which  tonic,  doùbt-' 
less,  stimulated  his  appetite,  his  resolution  and  his  love 
together.     Then  he  put  on  his  hat,  looked  at  his  watçh, 
and  depgo-ted  on  matrimonial^  business  intent. 

"l'Il'^offfortheReYerendJonasMaggsChisname'sthe 
-^    Revereiî^Jonas  Maggs)   atonce,    and' make  you   Mrs. 
Thorhdyke  before  ycm  eat  your  dinner.,    And  l'II  prder     ' 
a  few  things  hère— aAat,  for  instance,  a  sa<^ue,  an^  a  feti 


^^ 


■/- 


Y:, 


^; 


io6 


JVO-R/JVE^^  RE  VENGE. 


M^. 


dresses  and  ^\oyes.     m  be  back  in  an  hour  or  two  at  th« 

tinn^f  ^^^^^"^^ered  hin.   ''no,"  and  with    a  veTy^ffec^ 
tionate  embrace,  he  had  left  her      R„f  Jn  k-      k  ^ 

flightbvthistimp    ,11  "*•   "«y  nad  discovered  her 

whither,  andtf  Ine     A.^ZTT'''  ''"  ''"'  8<""=' 

fcruessing  the  truth      He  h.H   i      ^  f      '     ^  Perhaps 

S  Mrr^K  .  *^  ï'  '"«'"•  P"*-^?^.  <^<'"«  face  e„  face 
wth  Mr  Gilbervm  the  busy  whirJ  ot  New  York  lifr  ,.^^ 
*ow  wou  d  she  ever  darp  fn  m...  u-  'of  We,  and 

As  Laurence's  w,fe  the  d«oe  '  h,  ',';"^^'  ''=°™''"  '>'' 
be  hers,  but  througi;  ail  hX  ,  ''  ~"'''  «'"'  """''^ 
ftisbliss  thetranffthi  '««g-even  in  the  midstof 

M.untaall,„„ce  Miss  BoIlrrtSced  17^" 

swollen  nose    Th.  ^'"^^  ""''^  ^"^  ^>^^^  and  a 

Tio^drueii^p.t^rt'i^trttt^o^r'*'  -"  ^^ 


^ 


ïfl  ii(  j' i*  tlf  *    «  » 


-.•"i.-  k,   .  .  ^ .  ^H^,   i    ■ 


ni 


"MHS.  LAURENCE:' 


107 


"  Corne  in,"  she  said,  her  heart  beginijing  to  flutter,  and 
the  bridiigroom  came  iii,  handsome,'  smiling,  eager,  foUow- 
ed  by  a  seedy-looking  personage  in  rusty  black,  and  tlïe 
professional  *'  chokçr  "  of  dingy  white. 

"  Out  of  patience,  Norine  ?  But  I  could  not  come  an 
instant  sooner,  and  it  is  only  half-past  eleven.  My  friend, 
the  Révérend  Jdnas  Maggs,  Miss  Bourdon,  soon  to  be 
^ansformed  into  Mrs.  Laurence  Thomdyke;  ^d  the 
sooner  the  better.  Here's  the  ring,  Norrj^bought  hap- 
hazard— lét's  see  if  ijAs  the  dear  little  finger.  So  I  as 
if  you  were  bom  in  it^Now  then,  Mr.  Maggs,  pîty  the 
impatience  pf  ardent  love,  and  get  on  with  the  core- 
mony." 

High  spirits  thèse  for  a  runaway  match.  The  handsome 
face  was  flushed,  the  blue  eyes  feverishly  bright,  a  strong 
odor  of  cigars  and  cognac  pervaded  Mr.  Thorndyké's 
broadcloth.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Maggs  coughed,  a  meek, 
clérical  cough,  looked  furtively  and  admiringly  x,at  the 
bride,  drew  forth  a  book,  and  "  stood  at  ease."  Mr. 
Thorndyke  drew  Miss  Bourdon  up  before  him,  the  ring 
between  his  fingers,  an  odd  sort  of  smile  on  his  lips.  For 
Norine,  she  had  grown  ashen  white;  now  that  the  suprême 
moment  had  corne,  she  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot 
Even  to  her  inexpérience  there  was  something  bizarre, 
something  wrong  and  abnormal,  in  this  outre  sort  of 
marriage.  A  bride  without  bridai  dress,  veil  or  blossoms  ; 
without  bridesmaid,  or  friend  ;  a  bridegroom  splashed  with 
mud  and  rain  drops,  without  groomsman  or  witness.  And 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Maggs,  for  a  holy  man,  was  as  dirty  and 
disreputable  a  spécimen  of  the  class  as  one  might  wish  to 
see.  ^e  stood  by  his  side,  pale  to  the  lips,  afraid  of — she 
knew  not  what.     As  in  a  dream  she  heard  Mr.  Magga 


<0''- 


=r=^*= 


^'■■i 


io8 


ATO/f/NE^S  RE  VENGE. 


gabblîng  over  some  sort  of  cerem^nTr      a    •        j 

saw  him  shut  up  his  book  with  121  ^a  l    Tu       ""^ 

childishly  innocent  gaze.      His  were  .H  1   f.  n     l    ?  ' 

ana  s,o:,;tïïreroi^j-jrr  ~-"^ 

have^;:,adr  m?.:f  I"  """""^^  ^■«"^"^''^  -O-  ••  Vou 

above  rich  tliis  mornin^  hnfîtf'  •  "°'  °'""'  ^nd 

»«  your  face:  •■  ®'  ^™  »  '"o'  '""«'red  to 


X. 


\. 


>. 


CHAPTER  X. 
"  "a  fool's  paradise." 

[HElittlehouse  was  like  a  picture— like  a  doll's 
house.  the  whitest,  the  brightest,  the  trimmest, 
the  tiniest  of  ail  tiny  houses.    It  nestled  down 
f  ^K,         '"  ^  sheltered  nook,  with  its  back   set  corn- 
fortab ly  agmnst  a  hUl.   Its  pretty  little  garden  full  of  pret- 
ty  imle  flowers,  climbing  roses  and  scarlet-runners  ail 
over  Its  invitmg  porch,  and  away  beyond,  Chelsea  beach, 
hke  astnp  of  silver  ribbon,  and  the  dimpling  sea,  sr.iiling 
back  the  sunshme.    No  other  house  within  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  the  dim  dark  woodland  risingup  in  the  back-ground, 
the  big,  busthng,  work-a-day  world  shut  ont   on   every 
hand.      CouUl  Laurence  Thomdyke,  if  he  had  searched 
for  half  a  lifetime,  hâve  found  a  more  charming,  more 
secludedspotinwhichto  dream  out  Love's  Young  Dream? 
And  the  dream  was  pretty  nearly  dreamed  out  now. 
For  the  fourth  week  had  corne,  and  the  days  of  the 
honey  month  were  drawing  to  a  close.    If  tàe  truth  must 
De  told,  the  honey  had  cloyed  upon  Mr.   Thqmdyke's 
fastidiouspalatebeforetheendof  the  second  week,  had 
grown  distasteful  ère  the  end  of  the  third-had  pallëd 
entlrely  at  the  beginning  of  the  fourth.     In  other  words. 
the  honey-moon  business  and  doing  «  love  in  a  cottage/ 
buried  alive  hère,  was  fast  ^?sa>rning  a^most  horrible  1^» 


lAl^^A  >  K-.  At^^  +  J  'V-*-  i*  j, ,  "%  .1  \î 


■>  »  -»■  A«  *^''  jtà>>-, 


'■J^' 


IIO 


NORÏNEPS  RE  VENGE. 


it  might  hâve  been  different-even  then,  though   let    i 

I  couW  hâve  stood  another  week  of  this  deadly  lively  sort 
o£  thing.  But  I  wasn't  very  much  in  love,  li  you  know 
yourself    Laurence  Thorndyke,.  and  you  flatter  yourself 

body.    There  was  Lucy  West,  there  is  Helen  Holmes, 

Z^Jl  ^^"'■^°"-  ^  ^°"''  ^^"^^«  y«"  ever  had 

morie  than  a  passmgfancy  for  any  of  them,and  your  motto 

•  ever  has  been  '  lightly  won  lightly  lest.'" 

He  was  lying  upbn  a  sofa,  stretched  at  full  length,  his 

hands  clasped  behind  his  head,  a  cloud  of  cigar  smoke 

half-vailmg  h,s  handsome,  lazy,  bored  face,  his  eyes  fixed 

oreamily  upon  tbe  sparkling  sea.     Down  on  the  strip  o£ 

Uwny  sand  he  could  see  Norine,  looking  like  a  Dresden 

chmashepherdess  in  her  white  looped-up  dress,  some  blue 

drapery  caught  about  her,  a  jaunty  sailor    hat  on   her 

crushed  dark  curis,  and  a  cluster  of  pink  roses  in  her  belt. 

She  s  very  pretty.  and  ail  that,"  pursued  this  youthful 

philosopher  and  cynic.  looking  at  her  with  dispassionate 

eyes     but  is  the  game  worth  the  candie  ?  Three  weeks  and 

two  days,  and  l'm  sick  and  tired  to  death  of  this  place,  and 

-alas  !  my  pretty  Norry-of  you  !    «  Men  were  deceivers 

ever.    I  suppose  it  was  much  the  same  in  old  Shakspeare's 

time  as  it  ,s  now.     It  is  ail  ve.y  well  to  pay  off  Gilbert,  and 

wipe  out  the  old  scores,  but  it  is  not  at  ail  very  well  to  be 

duwnhented  by  old  Darcy.     If  it  cornes  to  his  ears  it's  ail 

up  with  my  chance  of  the  inheritance,  and  my  marriage 

mth  Helen.    And,  upon  my  word,  I  shouldn't  like  to  lose 

Helen.    She's  good-looking,jhe's  good  style,  she  can  tàlk 


ijf^\»*è-^        jnÎl  'w  "  \i       ^J*#*.  ■'.^^  /  1.  i.  *.* 


III 


"A  POOL' S  PARADJ^E» 

on  any  subject  under  Heaven,  and  she^s  M^enty  thousand 

dollars  down  on  her  weddingday.     Yés,  A  will  never  do 

to  throw  up  my  chances  there,  but  ho\i  to  d^p  quietly  ouf 

of  this— that's  thé  rub.     There.'Jl  be  the  dickers  to  pa> 

with  Norine,  and  sometimes  IVe  thought  of  late,  gentle  as 

she  is,  much  as  sho  loves  me— and  she  does  love  me,  poor 

little  soûl— that  she's  not  one  oî  the  milk-and-water  sort  to 

sit  down  in  a  (îorner  and  break  her  heart  quietly.    I  wish 

—I  wish— I  wish  I  had  left  her  in  peace  at  Kent  l^arm  I  " 

She  was  beckoning  to  him  gaily  at  that  moment.    He 

shook  off  his  disagreeable  méditation,  put  his  long  limbs 

down  off  the  sofa,  took  his  straw  hat,  and  sauntered  forth 

to  join  her. 

The  little  house— Sea  View  Cottage,  its  roraantic  mis- 
tress  had  named  it,  was  owned  by  the  two  Miss  Waddles. 
The  two  Miss  Waddles  were  two  old  maids.  Miss  Waddle. 
>.he  elder,  taught  school  in  Chelsea.  Miss  Waddle,  ]the 
younger,  was  literary,  and  wrote  sensation  stories  for  Se 
weekly  papers,  poor  thing.  In  addition,  they  eked  out  their 
,  Income  by  tak^ng  a  couple  of  summer  boarders,  for  people 
as  a  rule  don't  become  millionaires  teaching  school  or 
writing  for  the  papers.  Miss  Waddle,  the  youftger,  immersed 
in  ink  and  romance,  looked  after  the  young  man  with  eyes 
of  keen  professional  interest. 

"  How  grumpy  he  Jooks,"  thotight  Miss  Waddle;  "  how 
radiant  she  looks.  He's  tired  to  death  of  it  ail  already; 
she's  inore  âijd  more  in  love  with  him  every  day.  The  fîrst 
week  he  was  ail  dévotion,  the  second  week  the  thermometer 
fell  ten  degrees,  the  third  week  he  took  to  going  te  Boston 
and  coming  hori^e  in  the  small  hours,  smelling  of  smoke 
and  liquor,  this\fourth  he  yawns  in  her  face  from 
mçniing  until  ni^ht.    And  this  is  what  fools  call  the 


-^' 


112 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 


honey-mcon     JVToonshine  enough,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  bu» 
precious  little  honey.  ♦'  ' 

Miss  Waddle  ^stabbed  her  pen  down  in  the  inkstand. 
ook  a  deep  and  vicious  dip,  and  plunged  wildly  into 
hterature  once  more.     Mr.  Thorndyke,  listlessly,  wearily 
and  unutterably  bo^ed,  joined  the  idol  of  his  existence. 

m  the  Chelsea  cottage  they  were  known   is  «  Mr.   and 
Mrs.  Laurence."    For  Norî&e,  she  was  ra^antly  happy^ 
noweanness,noboredomforher.    The  honey  grew  sweeter 
to  her  t^te ^very^^y  ;  but  then  women. as  a  rule  hâve  a 
depraved  tasté  for  unwhohssome  sweetmeats  ;  the  days  Mr. 
Thorndyke  found  so  long,  so  vapid,  so  dreary,  werebright, 
hpef  dreams  of  blisâ  to  her.     She  had  written  her  short 
explanatory  note  hqme  during  the  first  week,  and  had 
given  it  to  Laurence  to  post.    Laurei^ce  took  it,  glad  of  an 
excuse  overto  Boston,  and  on  the  t^-boat  tore  it  into 
Mty  minute  fragments  and  cast  them  tothe  fourwinds  of 
«eaven.    Norine  had  written  a  second  time,  and  a  third. 
Her  piteous  litUe  letters  met  the  same  fate.    That  was 
one  drawback  to  her  perfe^fe^aradise-tltere  was  a  second, 
i^aurence'sgrowingwearinessof  itall.     «  4      \ 

"If  he  should  become  tired  of  me;  if  he  shotfTd  repenï^ 
his  hasty  marriage;  if  he  should  cease  to  love  me,  what 
would  become  of  me  ?"  she  thought,  clasping  her  hands 
nanagony.    «Oh,  mon  Dieu!  let  me  die  sooner  than 

ri  .  .  ^"""^  ^  ^  ^"  ^^"^^'^  him-such  lovely,  acasm- 
phshed  ladies  as  my  darling   might  bave  married-but 

NorbI  r"^  ""^  *^"'  ^*  ''''"^*^  ^""^^  ^"""^  ^  ^^"^'  ^^^  P°^' 

She  hidjier  fears  ;  the  tears  she  shed  over  their  silence 

and  unforgîveness  at  home  were  tears  shed  in  solitude  and 

darkness,  where  they  might  not  offend  or  reproach  him  < 


■H 


r  , 


ft- 


^f  . 


^i^-i  .M^in,^'  1  «< 


t-- 


**A  Foors  p arabise: 


"3 


Sbe  tried  every  simple  little  art  to  be  beautiful  and  attractive 
in  his  sight  Her  smiling  face  was  the  Jast  thing  he  saw, 
let  him  quit  her  ever  so  often— her  smiling  face  looJced 
brightly  and  sweetly  up  at  him  let  those  absences  be  ever 
so  prolonged.  And  they  weregrowing  more  fréquent  and 
more  prolonged  every  day.  He^ook  her  nowhere— his 
own  evenings,  without  exception  now,  were  spent  in  Boston, 
the  sraallest  of  the  small  hours  his  universal  hoûrs  for 
coming  home.  And  not  always  too  steady^f  foot  or  toc 
fluent  of  speech  at  thèse  comings,  for  this  captivating 
young  man  was  fonder  of  the  rattle  of  th^  dice-box,  the 
shuffling  of  the  pack,  and  the  "passing  ofthe.%sy  "  than 
was  at  ail  good  for  him. 

"Laurence,".  Norine's  bright  voice  called,~«you  kipw 
everything.  Corne  and  tell  me  what  is  this  botanical 
spécimen  I  hâve  found  ^owing  hère  in  the  cleft  of  the 
rocks." 

She  held  up  a  spray  of  blue  blossom.  Laurence  looked 
at  it  languidly. 

"  I  know  everything,  I  admit,  but  I  don't^  know  that. 
If  you  had  married  old  Gilbert  now,  my  darling,  your  thirst 
for  information  might  hâve  been  quenched.  There  isn't 
anything,  from  the  laws  of  the  nations  down  to  the  name  of 
every  weed  thatr^àws,  he  hasn't  at  his  leamed  légal 
finger  ends.  Oh,  Lord,  Norry,  what  a  long  day  this  l^as 
been — fifty-eight  hours  if  one." 

He  casts  himself  on  the  sands  at  her  feet,  pulls  his 
hat  over  his  eyes,  and  yawns  long  and  loudly.  Her 
happy  face  clouds,  the  dark,  lovely  eyes  look  at  him 
wistfuUy. 

"  It  is  duU  for  you,  dear,"  she  says,  tenderly,  a  little  tre- 
mor  in  the  soft,  sweet  tones  ;  "for  me  the  days  seem  ail 


<9 


.>. 


-■H- 


114  ^  ^ORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 

9 

too  short-I  am  so  happy,  I  suppose."     He  giances  up  at 
her,  strugglmg  feebly  with  a  whole  mouthful  of  gapes 
«  You  a/r  happjr,  then,  Nô^  AWt  as 


happy  as  when  at  home;  almost  as  happy  as  if  you  had 

married  that  orr^ament  of  society,  Richard  Gilbert,  instead 

of  the  scapegrace  and  outlaw,  Laurence  thorndyke?  » 

She  clasped  I^er  hands,  always  her  habit  when  moved 

So  happy  !»  Ishe  said.  under  her  breath  ;  «  so  perfectly, 

utterly  happy.    kow  could  I  ever  hâve  thought  of  mârrying 

any  one  but  you,  (Laurence-you  whom  I  loved  f rom  the  verv 

very  first  .'*  "         !  ,  .  ^ 

^' And"— he  hàs  the|face  to  hesitate  a  little— "  it  would 
make  y*u  very  ur|happy  if  we  wereforced  to  part,  I  suppose, 

"  Part  ?  "    She  starts,  grows  very  white,  and  two  dilated 

tlT.  T. ''  'r.;' ^''"'■'"'^'   ^^>^  ^«  y«"    ^k    me 
that  '•    ^  ^^^^  Dieul-it  would  kiU  me.-just 

Ht  laughs  a  little,  but  uneasily,  and  shif ts  awly  from  the 
gaze  of  the  large,  terrified  eyes.  v 

"  Kill  you  ?  x\o,  you're  not  the  sort  th\die  so  easily. 
Don  t  look  so  white  and  frightened,  child  ;  ÎMidn't  Jean 
anythmg,  at  least,  not  anything  serions  ;  only  wehave  Un 
almost  a  month  hère  and  it  is  about  time  I  went  tXay^mv 
respected  Uncle  Darcy  a  visit.  He  has  taken  to^ng 
unpieasant  questions  of  late-where  I  am,  whatllS 
domg,  why  I  don't  report  myselfat  headquarters-meaning 
h^  house  m  New  York.  Norry,  there's  no  help  for  it; 
1  il  hâve  to  take  a  run  up  to  New  York." 

She  sits  down  suddenly,    her  hand   over    her  heart. 
•faite  as  the  dress  she  wears. 

«Of  course  I  need  hot  stay  long,"  Mr.  Thomdyke 


■'jlMCiCwit.x.k-',-   .<-il'  ,  >^?'''    ■^biî^d.fi  titki.^ 


SÀSJ-i.^^ï'  ' 


.*. 


■■\; 

"A  POOrS  PARADISE." 


115 


pursues,  his  hat  still  over  his  eyes  ;  **  but  go  I  must,  there's 
no  alternative.  And  then,  peMiaps,  if  \-  get  a  chance,  I 
can  break  it  to  Hîm  gently-rriabout  you,  you  know.  I  haie 
the  tliought  of  leaving  you,  and  ail  that — nobody  more  ; 
but  still,  as  l've  told  you,  l'm  absolutely  depending  upon 
him  ;  the  exchequer  is  runnîng  low  and  must  be  replenished. 
Conjugal  love  is  a  capital  thing,  but  a  fellow  can't  live  on 
it.  Love  may  corne  and  love  may  go,  but  board  ^es  on 
forever.  You'U  stay  hère  with  the  two  Waddles,  do  fancy 
work,  read  novels,  and  take  walks,  and  you'U  never  find 
the  time  slipping  by  until  I  am  back.  You  don't  mind,  do 
you,  Norine  ?" 

"  How  long  will  you  be  gone  ?  "  she  asks,  in  an  odd, 
constrained  sort  of  voice. 

"  Well,  two  or  three  weeks,  perhaps.  I  shall  hâve  busi- 
ness to  attend  to,  aftd — and  ail  that.  But  l'il  be  back  at 
the  earliest  possible  moment,  be  sure  of  that." 

She  does  not  speak.  She  stands  looking,  with  that 
white  change  in  her  face,  over  the  sunny  sea. 

"  Corne,  Norine  !  "  he  exclaims,  impatiently,  "  you're 
not  going  to  be  a  baby,  I  hope.  If  you  love  me,  as  you 
say  you  do — "  She  turns  and  looks  at  him,  and  he 
alters  the  phrase  suddenly,  with  an  uneasy  laugh.  "  Well, 
iince  you  love  me  so  well,  Norry,  you  must  try  and  hâve  a  ' 
little  common  sensé.  ^  Common  sensé  and  pretty  girls  are 
incompatible,  I  know  ;  but  really,  my  dear  child,'  you  can't 
expect  that  our  whole  lives  are  to  be  spent  billing  and  coo- 
ing  hère.  It  would  be  very  delicious,  no  doubt  " — a  great 
yawn  stifles  his  w6rds  for  an  instant — "  but — ^by  Jove  ! 
who'sthis?"  ^ 

He  raises  himself  on  his  elbow,  pushes  back  his  hat,  and 
stares  hard  at  an  advancing  figure.    Norine  follows  his 


r 


^  ■►  *^i  «.  - 


X 


ii6 


JVORINE'S  HE  VENGE. 


l 


,    glance,  and  sees,  stepping  r^idJy  over  the  sand,  the  small 

\     "i::Re:::::-deviîï"  says  Laurence  Thorndyke. 
\  He-  springs  to  his  feet,  ànd  stands  waiting.    The  man 
•      advances,  cornes  near,  lifts  his  hat  to  the  lady,  and  looks 

.     with  a  calmglance^frecognitionat  the  gentleman.    Heis« 
pale  thin,  sombre  little  man,  not  too  well  dressed,  with  keen. 
small,  hght  blue  eyes,  and  thin,  décisive,  beardless  lips. 
Good-day,  Mr.  Thorndyke,"  he-says,  quietly 
"Liston-^it  is  Liston  1"  exclaims  Mr.  Tho^dyke,  a  red 
ang^r  flush  mounting  to  his  face.     "Atyour  usual  inso! 
ient  tricks,  I  see^dogging  me  !     May  I  ask— "  *  . 

"How  I  hâve  found  you  out?»  Mr.  Liston  interrupts. 
m  the  same  calm,  quiet  voice.  **  I  knew  you  were  hère 
three  weeks  ago,  Mr.  ThorndyJce.  I  saw  Maggs-the 
Révérend  Jonas  Maggs— in  Boston." 

He  lifts  his  light,  keen  eyes  for  one  second  to  Laurenïi 
Thorndyke  s,  then  'drops  them  to  the  sands.  The  red 
flushdeepens  on  the  youhg  man's  blonde  face,  his  blue 
eyes  flash  steely  fire. 

"  By  Heâven,  you  hâve  !"  he  exclaims,  in  as  uppressed 
voice.    «  Has  thë  drunken  fool— "  .  ^ 

Liston  interrupts  again  : 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Laurence,  but  if  you  will  steo 
aside  with  me,  I  would  like  to  say  a  few  words  to  you 
Aieantmje,  hère  are  tw^  letters-one  from  your  uncle,  the* 

"H'm!  AU  right  Liston  I  "  Thorndyke  says,  hastily,  and 
with  a  waming  glanée.  «  My  uncle  has  sent  you  ^to  hunt 
me  up  as  usual,  I  suppose."  *  ..   --^       ' 

"As  usual,  Mr.  Laurence.  He  commands  your  imme. 
djate  présence  in  New  York." 


81 
tt 

te 

y< 

es 

st 

V 

d( 
T 

di 

m 
ce 
A 

01 


M 
m; 


)    r 


-2fe&f}'.J*''^»aÊfci/  ' 


1    ^ 


,X     K       .       ,    \AFOOVSPAjiADISE:'      .  nj 

Again  the  color  nftJîints  to  £he  young  man's  face,  again 
his  eyes  flash  angiy  fire.  y  >• 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Liston,  that  you  or  that  d 

snivelling  hypocrite,  Maggs — ■'  > 

^  "  Mr.  Thorndyke,"  says  Mr.  Liston,  interrupting  for  the 

third  tinie,  gtnd  ralsing  his»  voice  slightly,  "  I  hâve  a  word 

to  say  to  you  in  private — if  the  young  lady  will  excuse 

TÏe  bows  in  a  sidelong  sort  of  way  \p  Noriii^  and  watch- 
es  her  furtiïfilj^  beneath  his  drooping  eyelids.  She  is 
standing  very  still,  her  eyes  on,  one  of  the  letters — a 
^uare,  perfumed,  r<^eK;olored  letter  superscribed  in  a  lady's 
délicate  tracery,  and  bearing  the  monogram  "  H.  H." 
Thorndyke  thrusts  both  abruptly  into  his  pocket,. and 
draws  her  aside. 

"  Go  back  to  the  house;  Norine,"  he  says  hastily.  '^'**  I 
must  hearrwhat  this  fellow  has  to  say.  He's  secretary— 
confidaitial  clerk,  valet,  factotum  generall^,  to  lïiy  uncle. 
And  I  wish  the  devil  had  him  before  he  ever  found  me 
out  hère  !  "       \  /  > 

She  obeys  papsivel^very  riale,  stiU.--^-^ 

"  That snivellingJiypocrite,  Maggs  f  "  she  is  repeat- 

ing  inwàrdly.    "  What  a  dreadful  way  to  speak  of  a  clergy- 
man!"  ~  l 

Mr.  Thonw^yke  rejoins  Mr.i.iston,  a  iscowl  on  his  face, 
fais  brbws  lowering  and  angry. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  demands,  savagely. 

"  Well,"  the  riew-comer's  quiet  voice  repeats,  ^  don't  lose 
you  temper,   Mr.  Laurence  —  I  haven't  donc  an3(thing. 
your  uncle  told  me  to  hunt  you  up,  and  I  hâve  huntèd 
you  up — that  is  ail.'' 
_,")^>gndidhe  tell  you»  confbund  him  L'*J       ,  _ 


vJ 


y 


♦ 


^■^ 


Ii8 


NORINE^S  RE  VENGE. 


One  week  ago,  Mr.  Laurence.» 

Aweekago?    '  thought  you  said^" 

ihatlmetMaggsthreeweeksago?  Soldid     Ti.,.u 
wasbeastlyUrunk?     Sohewas      Thn/h    Mi^  '^'^* 

hedirf      ThofTu        ,   "^^«-     ^nathetoJdmeall?    So 


wonder  you're  not  afraid." 
A  c,,« j       ..         . 


anaer  you're  not  afraid."       7\  ™.-"^.c 

A  suppressed  oath-no  other  repiy  from  Mr^  Laufcn^ 

ga»es  in  your  11^.  ^^^^^Z^^l^^tt^^^ 
put  the  topper  on  the  lot     T  f,     ■  C       .  "'''  """ 

romances       fever^n         J''"  ^"''  '^'■'-  R^cliffe's 

«ys,  clenching  his  flst  ^  ^^  ^"^^^  ^^'<  '^ 

ButT^T  Tu''    '""^''.  "^^  '•*'•'  f"--  him-ven,  likelv  • 

^PiQo"u^''''"^^''°"'°"«'^-5^'^p^"yô:^ 

rhorndyke,   "Iwa3Justte>linghersoaiPKif  S '^ 
.    *[^oumayn'.«V'repUesMr.Lau.^„ee,,iU,fe„«i^, 


l'ék 


J'ji^Wj» 


i 


/ 


»A  FOOVS  P/ARADISE. 


119 


**  as  you  say  it's  none  of  your  business.     Lfston  !  look  hère, 

ypu're  ndt  going'to  turn  State's  évidence,  are  you— honor 

/^jbright  ?    Yoû  ai^e  not  going  to  tell  the  old  man."       ' 


\^ 


Vih 


Hjs  angry  voice  drops  to  a  pleading  cadence.     Mr.  Lis- 

n's  shiftyjighteyes'look  up  at  him  for  a  mQment. 

"  Do  I  ever  teil  Mr,  Laurence7  It  is  late  in  the  day  tp 
ask  such  a  questigii  as  that. 

"  Sq  it  is.     Yoir're^ot  klf  a  bad  fellqw,  old  boy,  and 
hâve  got  me  out  <5!  nô  end  of  scrapes.     Get  me  out  oT 
this  and  l'il  never  forg^t  it— that  I  sWear.     One  of  thèse 
days  you  shall  haive  your  reward  in  hard  cash— ^atl 
promise  you."     -  '  '  •  .  *- 

"  When  you  marry  Miss  Holmes  ?  It's  a  bargain,  Mr. 
Laurence— l'U  try  ând  earn  my  reward.  What  is  it  you 
wanfr  me  to  do  ?  "  ^ 

"  l'm  going  to  New  York  to-morrow,"  Tho»adyke  says, 
hurriedly.  «'  I  must  invent  some  excuse  for  the  govemor, 
and  what  I  say  you  are  to  swear  to.  And  when  pfeace  is 
proclaimed  you  must  come  back  and  tell  her.  1  can't  <Jo 
it  myself— by  George,  I  can't." 

^*  Is  that  ail  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Liston.    . 

"You'll  look  after  her— poor  little  soûl  !  and,  if  she 
wishes  j.t,  take  her  to  her  friends.  l'm  sorry,  sorry,  sorry— 
for  her^ake  and  for  my  own.  But  it's  rather  late  for  ail 
that.    Liston^  is  Richard  Gilbert  in  town ?" 

**He  is  4n  town.  He  has  been  to  see  your  uncle* 
He  has  been  speakin^  of  this  girl.  My  wdrd  Mr. 
Laurence,  you'll  hâve  to  éo-some  hard  swearing  to  prove 
an  alibi  this  time." 

"  Curse  the  luck  !  TelJ  me  what  Darcy  s^d  to  yo» 
liston,  Word  fpr  Word."  .        , 

"Mr.   Darcy  said  this-  'Liston,  go  and  find  youn| 


ii 


là^ 


r' 


^-s 


/j*'"^!*  ■i««»'*i  «'V'^»" 


ia. 


-1  •    ' 


S' 


120 


NORINEPS  RE  VENGE. 


W 


*%, 


Thomdyke  (he  never  ealls  you  young  Thorhdyke  excpl 
tome     A„dhark'ee,£ello,vl  no  lying  from  you  or  him 

S  wL^hT   ''  ''«  "«^"'«""g  <-  dead.'   He  „as  in  one 
oï  his  yhite  rages,  when  the  less  said  the  better.    That  was 

for  1  r  ?:'  ''"°™  ^'  ^''°'"  ^''"  ^-  t"»  "-■'3  ^ 

Vou  re  a  trump,  Liston  (  And  he  gave  you  this  letter  ?  " 

shofrr""'  *«'««"••     Y»"'»  fi»d  it  considerably 
shorter  than  sweet.    The  other  came  from  Miss  Holmes 
afewdaysago— hesentthattoo."  '         "°™«5' 

"  She  doesn't  koow " 

out,  and  then  you're  cake's  dough  with  a  vengeance.    How 
do  you  suppose  the  little  one  (she's  ve^  pretty  Mr 

Jr;sr;;;œ:?t.'-- -<^ -).  0O.Y  y^- s'::; 

Mr.  Thorndyke's  reply  was  a  groan. 
For  Heaven's  sake  dpn't  ask  me,  Liston  I  It's  a  Èorri 
Me  business.    I  must  hâve  been  mad."  "^^^°"»- 

"  Of  course— madly  in  love  " 

"Nothing  of  the  sort-not  in  love  at  ail.  It  was  oure 
spue-l  giveyou  my  word-not  a  spark  of  real  lovLT 
matter,  except  what  was  W  her  side.  Gilbert  waT  it 
to  many  her,  you  know."  ,  ••  w^s  going 

"Iljnow.» 

"And  I  hâte  him  as  I  hâte  the ."  ^ 

"  Prince  of  evil  1 1  know  that,  too." 

'*You  know  everything   that's  my  opinion     What  a 


;  iii,.,,  ^.,.:..'  . 


T^-"      ,■^■,^v^^ 


)rri- 


"  A  Foovs  paragise:*  ,21 

A  7?  .^^  ^l''''^^^  °"^  ^'^  *^°  '^«le  games  of  yours 
-And  he  'peached  '  in  that  affair  of  Lucy  West  » 

-  Liston  !  what  an  infernal  scound^el  you  must  think 
«e  men  yourecall  Lucy  West,  I  wondeJ  you  don't  hâte 
me  tenfold  more  than  I  hâte  Gilbert." 

"I  do  think  you  an  infernal  scoundrel,"  replies  Mr. 
Liston,  coolly.  «  As  for  hating-well  l'm  one  of  the  ^. 
giving  sor^  you  Jjnow.  .  Besides,  there's  nothing  made  by 
^rnmg  infonner,  and  there  is  something  to  be  made,  you 
say,  by  keepmg  mum.      Now  suppose  you  go  back  tô  the 

LT  vou'rf  off 't'  ''''  '"'"^  '°^  y°"'  "^  ^-^^  -^  tel! 
her  you  re  off  to-morrow.     V\\  call  for  you  with  a  light 

wagon  about  noon.     Until  then  good-day  to  you."         ^ 

Thomdyke  seized  his  hand  and  shook  it 

"lion't  know  how  to  thank  you,  Liston  1  You're  the 

He  strode  a^ay.  If  he  could  only  hâve  seen  the  look 
the  prince  of  good  fellows  "  cast  after  him  I 
"*  You  don't  know  how  to  thank  me,'»  he  thouchL 
with  sneenng  scom.  «You  fool!  You  blind.  coWifecL 
besotted  fool ,  'When  I  recallLucy  West  you  wondTif 
don't  hâte  you  r  Was  there  ever  a  time,  my  perfumed 
coxcomb  when  I  did  not  hâte  you  ?  And  you/reward  m^ 

IZ  i^"^",f  V^"'"  ^"""^  '^^  "'  ^^^  P'^^X'  a«d  how  in. 


y'4&4iî»v.  fcki..  r . li'f  H  1^.1»  .'  : 


,    *t      •  .     ^4 


V 


CHAPTER  XI. 


■  A 


\. 


\ 


\ 


Ef5 


GONE. 

AURENCE    THORNDYKE    strode    rapidl, 
back  orer  the  sands  to  where  Norine  stood 
She  had  not  gone  into  the  house,  she  was  ^ 
leaning  against  a  green  mound,  her  hand^-Gfr^ 
hanging  listlessly  before  her,  the  white,  startled  change  çh 
her  face  still.    Laarence  was  going  away— in  an  ainîle^- 
sort  of  manner  she  kept  repeating  thèse  words  over  and 
over,  Laurence  was  going  away  J 

"  IVe  made  a  devil  of  a  mess  of  it,"  thought  Mr.  Thom- 
dyke,  gnawing  his  mustache  with  gloomy  ferocity.  "  What 
an  unmitigated  ass  I  hâve  been  in  this  business  !  Liston's 
right— a  mock  marriage  is  no  joke.  I  can  make  my  es- 
cape  froni  her  now,  but  the  truth's  got  to  be  told,  and  that 
soon.  And  what  is  to  hinder  her  taking  her  revenge  and 
blowmgme  sky-high,  as  I  deserve.?  One  whisper  of  this 
aflfair,  and  Darcy  disinherits  me,  Helen  jilts  me,  and  then 
— good  Heaven  above  I  what  a  fool  I  hâve  been." 

Yes,  Mr.  Thorndyke  had  been  a  fool,  and  was  repenting 
iû  sackcloth  and  ashes.  To  gratify  a  passing  fancy  for  a 
prettyface  may  be  a  very  pleasing  thing— to  take  revenge 
upon  aman  who  has  interfered  with  one's  little  plans,  may 
aiso  be  a  pleasing  thing,  but  to  eut  off  one's  own  nose 
to  spite  one's  own  face,  is  something  one  is  apt  to  regret 
afterwards.  It  was  Mr.  Thorndyke'à  case.  He  had  taken 
Richard  Gilbert's  bride  froin  hîiri  MJhej^eiy  altar^ag  gng 


-*1 


*l6î   ,itj!'».ii'  ...   *,1  -  ' 


.U: 


CONE. 


123 


^ 


rapidljF 
stood 

fie  was  ^^ 

sr  and 

rhom- 
•What 
iston's 
my  es- 
d  that 
e  and 
)f  this 
1  then 

înting 

for  a 
îvenge 
},  may 

nose 
regret 
taken 


may  îay,  and  he  had  gloated  over  his  vengeance,  but  what 
was  to  hinder  Norine  Bourdon  from  rising,  strong  in  her 
wrongs  and  betrayal,  and  ruining  himjor  life?  She  was 
the  gentlest,  the  most  yielding  of  human  Bêings  now,  and 
she  loved  him;  but  is  it^not  those  whom  we  hâve  once 
loved  best,  we  learn  afterwards  to  hâte  most  bitterly?  He 
had  cruelly,  shamefully  wronged  and  deceived  her— what 
right  had  he  to  look  for  mercy  in  retum  ?  As  hé  had  sown, 
so  must  he  reap. 

She  scarcely  turned  at  his  approach.  How  pale  she  was, 
and  the  large  dark  eyes  she  lifted  were  full  of  a  child's 
startled  terror. 

"  Norine,"  he  abruptly  began,  "  there  is  no  help  for  it— 
I  must  go  to  New  York  to-morrow." 
Her  lips  trembled  a  little. 

"To-morrow,"  she  repeated,  under  her  breath  — "so 
soon !" 

"  Rather  short  notice,  I  admit,  but  then  you  see  it— it  isn't 
for  a  lifetime.  Ail  husbands  and  wives  part  once  in  a  while 
and  survive  it.  Come,  Norine,"  with  irritated  impatience, 
"don't  wear  that  woe-begone  face!  l'm  not  to  blâme,  I 
can'thelpit  You  don't  suppose  I  want  toleave  you.  But 
here's  Liston— my  uncle's  man.  You  heard  him  yourselt 
You  saw  the  letter  commanding  my  retum." 

"  The  letter,"  she  repeated,  looking  athim  :  "  there  were 
twol" 

"Ah— yes— two,  so  there  were.     But  the  otherlnis 
merely  a  note  from  a  friend.     I  leave  at  nooi?  tb-morrow, 
so  see  that  my  valise  is  packed,  and  eve^hing  ail  right, 
that's  a  good  child.    And  do  try  To  get  rid  of  that  white 
reproadiful  face,  unless  you  want  it  to  haunt  me  like  tbc 


•  ^Hfff?;    i»^>"  i-  '■ 


r 


124 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 


He  spoke  with  iititated  petylance— at  war  with  her,  witb 
himself,  and  his  smouldering  ill-temper  breaking  forth.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  spoken  sharply  to  her.  A 
faint  flush  rose  to  her  cheeks.  She  clasped  both  hands 
around  his  arhi  and  looked  up  in  his  moody,  discontented 
face  with  piteous  imploring  eyes. 

"  Don't  be  vexed,  Laurence  j  I  don't  mean  to  reproach 
you,  indeed,  and  I  know  you  cannot  help  it.  Only,  dear,  I 
love  you  so  much,  and— and  it  is  our  first  parting,  and  I 
feave  been  so  happy  hère — so  happy  hère — " 

For  a  minute  her  voice  broke,  and  she  laid  her  face 
against  his  shoulder. 

Mr.  Thorndyke  smothered  a  suppressed  groan. 
"O  Jupiter!  hère  itis!  Tears,  and  scènes  arid  hys- 
téries. I  knew  how  it  would  be,  they  ail  will  do  it, 
eyery  chance.  Norine  !"— aloud  and  still  impatient—"  for 
pity's  sake,  don't  cry— it's  something  I  can't  stand.  Hère  ! 
l'il  throw  my  uncle,  his  fortune  and  favor,  and  ail  the  hopes 
and  ambitions  of  my  life  to  the  winds,  and  stay  hère,  and 
bill  and  coo,  ail  the  rest  of  my  life.  If  I  can't  go  in  peace  I 
won't  go  at  ail."  ^ 

She  lifted  her  head^  if  he  had  struck  her.  Something 
in  his  tone,  in  his  words,  in  his  face,  dried  her  tears  effect- 
ually,  at  once  and  forever. 

"  I  begyour  pardon,  Laurence,"  she  said,  suddenly,  in  an 
altered  voice.  «I  won't  cry  any  more.  Shall  I  go  and 
pack  your  valise  now  or  leave  it  until  to-morrow  moming  ?  " 

He  glanced  at  her  uneasily.  The  dark,  soft  eyes  looked 
fax  away  seaward,  ihe  délicate  lips  had  ceased  to  tremble, 
the  small  handspme  face  had  grown  resolutely  still.  What 
manner  of  woman  he  wondered,  was  this  girl  going  te 
make  ? 


/ 


.'•*•" 


CONE. 


I2S 


"Norine!    You  afe  not  offended  ?  " 
,1^^"'^^^-^'^  y«"'  Laurence?    No,  that  is  not  po- 

"  You  lovè  me  so  much,  Norine  ?  " 
"  I  hâve  given  you  proof  whethcr  I  love  you  or  no     1 
amyourwife."  /  «  wf  uo.     x 

"  Yes,  of  course,  of  course  1  "  hastily  ;  «  but  Norine-sea 
here^uppose  in  the  future  I  did  some  great  w^o^^^ 
serted  you  for  mstance-no,  no  !  don't  look  at  me  lilfe  that 
—mis  is  only  a  suppositions  case,  you  know  I  " 

The  large  dark  eyes  were  fixed  full  upon  him  He 
laughed  m  rather  a  flurried  way,  and  his  own  shifred  and 

','  Go  on,"  she  said. 

JlhT""  '  ''T;?"  ''°'''  "d  it  was  in  your  power  to  take 

toto  tl,e  dark,  tender  eyes  there  leaped  a  lieht-into 

^nil^l^      *'""'"*  *'™  settled  an  expression  entire- 

lynewto  Laurence  Thomdyke.    One  li«Ie  hand  clencSTd 

unœnsc,ous,y-^he         ,ther  breaftfor  a  second,  Zl 

Yes,"  she  said,  «  I  would  I  "  »    «"«. 

^^C^T^"^  him-Iiterally  and  h»ly  «ag- 
gered  him.    He  had  not  expected  it-he  had  looked  fo» 

Wonne       he  cned,  «you    would  !  Do  you  know  what 
ryorc::rd^.^   '^°-ouidhaten.e,a„dL„eL';^ 
She  looked  at  him  full. 

sav:    ««aTIwJ-         "^""^  ^^^  "°'  the  Bookof  books 


A. 


trJ4^*  ^ 


120 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 


life.    Yes,  Laurence— >if  I  did  not  gq  mad  s^d  die,  I 


inow. 


reveni 


would  bâte  you  more 
|ifIcouldr     .- 

Then  there  was  a  silence.  He  had  grown  pale  as  her- 
aelf,  and  stood  quite  motionless  looking  at  the  sea.  He 
knew  what  Jie  had  to  expect  at  last. 

Nonne  yi^a  ^ill  clinging  to  his  ahn.  He  disengaged  it 
abniptly,  and  wilhout  a  word  or'  look,  walked^away  frora 
her.  A  moment  she  stood— then  two  little  hands  clasped 
the  arm  once  more,  a  pleading  voice  spoke,  and  the  sweet, 
tender  face  of  Norine  looked  imploringly  up  at  him. 

.  **  Laurence— dearest   Laurence  !    I  hâve  angered   you 
âgain.    But  you  aske^  me  a  question  and  I  had  to  answer 
it.    Forgive  me.'* 
He  turned  awày  from  her  resolutely. 
«  There  is  no  forgîveness  needed,  Norine.     I  admire 
your   truthful  and  plain-spoken  spirit.    Only  you  see  I 
thought  Norine  Bourdon  a  Wing,  gentle,  forgiving  li(;tle 
souL  who  cared  fop  me  se  much  that  she  was  ready  to  for- 
give \me  seventy-times-seven,  and  I  find,  according  to  her 
own  ^howing,  she  is  a  strong-minded  woman,  ready  to 
t%  wreakWengeance  for  the  first  wrong  done  her— ready  for 
love  or\hatred  at  a  moment's  notice.     It  is  well  you  told  me 
—it  is  élways  best  to  understand  one  another.    No,  we 
won't'haVe  any  tender  scènes,  if  you  please,  Mrs.  Laurence 
—I  have\found  out  exactly  what  they  are  worth."    He 
puUed  out  his  watch.     «I  hâve  l?usiness  oVer  in  Boston, 
and  as  it  is  growing  late  I  will  be  off  at  once.    If  I  am  very 
late— as  islikely— I  must  ^gyou  will  notsitup  forme. 
Good-aftemooA."  '  -. 

l     He  lifted  his  hat  ceremoniousTy,  as  ta  an  indiffèrent  a» 
.  quaintance,  and  walked  deliberately  away. 


:>^' 

'       -J       - 

-.—J 

Alll 

• 

' 

1 

* 

\à 

t. 

- 

"• 

. 

%, 

'.^i..% 

'YW. 

J",  t  J-^^Jt- 

• 

F     \ 

-;  m 

.■^    u 

♦    t 

• 

.iMlliiM.' 

J^-  ^    -, 

*  • 

■f> 


•t*i 


GONE. 


137 


She  stood  stock  still  where  he  had  left  her,  and  watched 
the  tall,  activ©  figure  out  of  sight.  Then  she  sat  dowi^ 
feeling  suddenly  weak  and  faint,  and  lay  back  against  the 
green  mound.  For  a  moment  sea,  and  sky,  and  sands 
swam  before  her  in  a  bot  mist,  and  then  the  faintness  pass» 
ed  away,  leaving  her  tearless  and  trembling. 

What  did  Ke  mean  ?  -  ^ 

He  had  talked  qf  desefting  her?,  Did  he  mean  it?  A 
hand  of  icé  seemed  to  clutch  her  heart  at  the  thôught.  No, 
no,  no.l  he  had  only  been  trying  her — proving  what  her 
love  was  worth.  And  she  had  answered  him  like  that 
she  would  hâte  him  and  be  revenged.  He  had  called  her 
a  "  strong-minded  woman," — a  term  of  bitter  reproach — 
and  no  wonder.  No  wonder  he  was  angry,  hurt,  outraged. 
Why  had  she  said  Such  a  horrible  thing?  She  hardly 
knew  herself — the  woïds  seemed  to  hâve  come  to  her  in- 
stinctively.  Were  they  true  ?  She  did  know  that  either 
— just  now  she  knew.  nothing  but  that  Laurence  had  left 
her  in  anger  for  the  first  time,  that  he  would  probably  not 
return  until  to-morrow  morning,  the  fateful  to-morrow 
that  was  to  take  him  f rom  her  for— hpw  long  ? 
.  She  broke  down  then,  and  laying  her  face  against  the 
soft,  cool  grass,  gave  way  to  a  storm  of  impassioned  weep- 
ing,  that  shook  her  like  a  rééd.  "  The  strong-minded  wo- 
man "  was  gone^  and  only  a  child  that  had  done  wrong  and  is 
sorry — a  weak  girl  weeping  for  her  lost  lover,  remained. 

TTie  afternoon  waned,  the  twilight  fell,  the  wind  arose 
chilly  from  the  sea.  And  pallid  as  a  spirit,  sUivering  in 
the  damp  air,  silent  and  spiritiess,  the  younger  jMiss  Wad* 
die  found  her  when  she  came  to  call  her  in  to  supper. 

She  drank  her  tea  thirstily,  but  she  could  eat  nothing. 
Immediately  after  the  lonely  meal,  she  hastened  to  hef 


128 


NO  RI  ne:  s  RE  VENGE. 


room,  and  throwing  â  shawl  around  her,  sat  dqwn  in  tho 
easy  chair  by  the  window  to  watch  and  wait.  He  had 
told  her  not  to  sit  jp  for  him— it  would  annoy  him  proba- 
bly  to  be  disobeyed,  but  she  could  not  go  to  bed,  for  in  the 
darkness  and  the  quiet,  lying  down,  she  knew  how  she 
would  toss  wakefully  about  until  she  had  thought  herself 
into  afever. 

Night  fell.  Outside  the  sea  spread  black,  away  until  it 
melted  into  the  blacker  sky.  The  wind  sighed  fitfully, 
the  stars  shone  frostily  bright.  Inside,  the  little  piano  in 
the  parlor,  played  upoh  by  the  elder  Miss  Waddle,  after  her 
day's  teaching,  made  merry  music.  In  the  intervais,  when 
it  was  silent,  the  younger  Miss  Waddle  read  chapters  àloud 
from  her  latest  novel.  Ten,  eleven  struck,  then  the  parlor 
lights  went  out,  doof^werelocked,  and  the  Misses  Waddle 
went  up  stairs  to  their  maidèn  slumbers.    . 

The  pale  lîttle  watcher  by  the  window  sat  on,  hopîng 
against  hope.     He  might  corne,  and  be  it  late  or  early  she 
must  be  awake  and   waiting,  to    throw  herself  into  his 
manly  arms  and  implore  his  lordly  pardon.     She  coûld 
never  sleep  more  until  she  had  sobbed  out  her  pénitence 
and  been    forgiven.     But  the  long,  dark,  dragging,  lone- 
ly  hours  wore  on.      One,  two,  three,  four,  apd  the  little 
white,   sad  face  lay  against  the  cold  glass,    the  dark,' 
moumfui  eyes  strained   themselves  through   the    murky 
gloom  to  catch    the  first  glimpse   of  their  idol.    Five  I 
the  cold  gray  dawn  of  another  day  crept  over  sea  and 
woodland,  and  worn  out  with  watching,  chilled  to  the  bone 
the  child's  head  fell  back,  the  heavy  eyelids  swayed  and 
drooped,  and  she  lay  still. 

So,  when  two   hours  later   Mr.  Laurence  Thomdyke, 
smelling  strongei  than  ever  of  cigars  and  brandy,  as  the 


? 


^^^^j^ 


A.  . 


•AA  . 


HXSt&^Sp.'it^^f''j.  ',L    .Q»  *i*."   t.- 


CONE. 


129 


younger  Miss  Waddle's  disgusted  nose  testified,  came  into 
the  silent  chamber,  he  found  her.  The  pretty  head,  with 
ail  Its  dark,  rippling  ringlets,  lay  against  the  back  of  the 
chair,  the  sniall  face  looked  deathly  in  its  spent  sleep. 
Slïe  had  watched  and  waiteè  for  him  hère  ail  night.  And 
remembering  how,  over  the  card  table  and  the  wine  bottle, 
his  night  had  been  passed,  utterly  forgetful  of  her,  thé 
first  paJfg  of  real  unselfish  remorse  this  young  gentleman 
had  ever  felt,  came  to  him  then. 

"Poor  little  heart!"  he  thought  ;  "  poor  little,  pretty 
Norine.  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  never  heard  of  Gilbert's 
projected  marriage— î  wish  I  had  never  gone  back  to  Kent 
Farm."  • 

Five  hours  later,  and  white  and  tearless,  Norine  is  cling- 
ing  to  him  in  the  speechless  paip.  of  parting.  Is  ther© 
some  presentiment,  that  she  herself  cannot  understand, 
even  now  in  her  heart^  that  it  is  forever  ? 

"  Don't— rt57«V  look  so  white  and  wild,  Norry  ?  "  he  is  say- 
ing  hurriedly.  "  I  wish,  I  wish  I  need  ndt  leave  you. 
Little  one— little  Norry,  whatever  happens,  you— you'll 
try  and  forgive  me,  won't  you  ?  Don't  hâte  me  if  vou  can 
helpit." 

She  doesnot  understand  him—she  just  clings  to  him,  as 
though  death  wçre  easier  than  to  let  him  go. 

"Time's  up,  kr.  Laurence  !"  calls  out  the  sharp  voice 
of  little  Mr.  Liston,  sitting  in  the  light  wagon  at  the  doorj 
"  if  you  linger  five  minutes  more  we'U  lose  our  train." 

"  Good-by,  Norine — ^good  by  î  '* 

He  is  glad  to  be  called,  glad  to  break  away  from  the 
gentle  arms  that  would  hold  him  there  forever.     He  kiss- 
es  her  hurriedly,  frees  himself  from  her  clasp,  and  leaves  her 
sUnding  stricken  and  speechless  in  the  middle  of  the  fioor 
" —— 6* - — - -— ^ 


•-uC 


V'-' 


130 


NORIN£rS  RE  VENGE. 


^   .  Thank  Hèaven  that's  over  I  "  he  saj  s,  almoat  savagely  • 
drive  like  the  devil,  Liston  \  I  won't  breath  ffeery  until  J 
am  out  of  sight  of  the  house." 
Mr.  Liston  obeys. 

She  stands  where  he  bas  left  her,  rigid,  tearless,-»'hite 
Iwtenmg  to  the  rapid  roll  of  aie  wheels  bver  the  gravel 
over  the  road,  growing  faint  and  fainter,  and^dying  out  fat  ^ 
off.    Then  she  sinks  down,  and  she  and'  her  lover  hâve 
Ijarted  forever.  .    #,        . 


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A^W^ 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  TRUTH.        / 

BLEAK  autumnal  afternoon,  a  gray,  fàs^-dr ift- 
ingskyoverhead,  a  raw  wind  sweepîng  up  from 
the  shore,  the  sea  itself  ail  blurred  and  blotted 
out  in  the  chilly,  creeping  fog.    At  the  parlor- 
window  o^Sea  View  Cottagef  Norine  stands  looking  wist- 
fuUy,  wearily  put.   Three  weeks  hâve  passed  since  her  hus  ' 
band  lef t  her— it  is  seven  weeks  altogethèr  since  the\nemor 
able  night  of  her  elopemçnt.  Thèse  last  three,  lonely  weeks 
hâve  wrought  theîr  sad,   inévitable  change.     Thé  small 
face  has  grownsmallet  the  large  dark  eyes  seem  unnatur^ 
ally  large  for  the  wan  face.  A  sad,  patient  light  fills  them. 
The,slightform  has  grown  .fragile,  the  hands Wt  hang 
loosely  clasped  before  her  are  almost  transparent.     As  she 
stands  hère  watching,  waiting,  she  slips,  unconsciously,  her 
.  wedding  ring  up  and  down  her  finger.     So  thin  that  fin- 
ger  has  grown  that  every  now  and  then  the  ring  drops 
loosely  ofï  altogethèr.     Within,  it  is  pleasant  enough.     A 
fire  burns  brightly  in  the  grate.  Miss  Waddle's  Canaries 
bask  in  the  beat,  singing  blithely,  and  the  younger  Miss 
Waddle  sits  ather  desk  immersed  as  usual,  fathoms  deep 
in  ink,  and  romance.    The  inspiration  of  genius  is  evident- 
ly  strong  upon  the  younger  Miss  Waddle  this  afternoon, 
for  her  pen  rushes  madly  along  the  paper,  her  -Jiair  is  un- 


y 


kU.'. 


•5**0    ^-l 


■■••*! 


Mr 


132 


NOkrNE'S  JiE  VENGE. 


combed  and  twisted  în  \  tight  knot  afthe  hack  of  hei 
hea|.  Profound  stillness  reigns,  the  ticking  of  tHe  clock, 
thé-jwrring  of  puss  on  the  rug,  the  chirping  of  the  Canaries, 
thç  ïïght  fall  of  the  cmders,  the  sîghing  of  the  fttful  wind, 
and  the  monotonous  scrape,  scrape,  scrape,  of  the  literary 
lady's  pen— that  is  ail.  .    ^ 

•Atlast—  ,  "^     '       . 

;  "Therel*'  cries  the  younger  Miss  Waddie,  drawing  a 
deep,  intense  breath  of  relief,  '"  l've  done  with  you  for  one 
dayl  Let  the  printer's  devil  corne  when  he  likes,  l'm 
ready  for  him."  '  ,     v 

She  nods  at  tjie  blotted  and  scratched  pile  of  MSS 
wipes  her  pen  in  her  hair,  falls  back  in  her  chair,  and 
looks  at  the  clock. 

"  Half-past  iive,  as  l'm  a  sinner,  and  the  kitchen  fire 

not  lit  yet.     'Lizabeth  wiU  be  home  to  her  tea  at  six,  as 

hungry  as  a  bear.     A  minute  ago  I  was  writing  up  the 

saymgs  and  doings  of  dukes  ànd  duchesses,  now  I  must 

go  and  kindie    the   kitchen   stove.     Such  is  lifè— with 

,  authoresses,  but  a  step  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous. 

Mrs.  Lauî-ence,  my  dear  child,  it's  of  no  use  your  strain- 

mg  the  eyes  out  of  your  head.    Whether  there's  a  letter  for 

you  .or  not,  my  sister  won't  be  hère  with  it  for  the  next 

halfhour."  - 

Norine  claspe4  her  hands.  "        <* 

«  Oh  I  »  she  said,  «  surely,  there  wiU  be  a  letter  for  me 
to-day." 

"I  hope   so,  l'm  .sure.    It's    uncommonly   odd    Mr. 
Laurence  doesn't  write,  but  then,  as  a  rule,  I  believe  men  " 
hâte  letter  writing.     Maybe  he's  on  his  way  hère  and 
doesn't  thinkjtworth  while— it  wiU  come  out  ail  right, 
dépend  upon  it.    S6  cheer  up,  Mrs.  Laurence,  my  dear, 


,  ...V,  ^- 


THE    TRUTH. 


133 


•  anddon't  wear  that  woful  face.  You've  grown  a^  thin  as 
a  shadow  during  the|ast  two  weeks..  Ydu  must  take  care 
oryour  handsome  hiîsband  wilt  be  disenchaiïted  when  ht 
sees  that  pallid  countenance.  Tell  yoir  wftat,  Mrs.  Laurence 
you  ought  to  hâve  something  to  do." 

"  Something  to  do  ?  "  Norine  said  faintly.  „ 

"  ^omething  to  do,  my  ^ar— sewing,  drawing,  playing, 
reading,  writing— anything  but  moping  about  this  way— . 
waiting,  waiting,  waiting,  and-getting  the  horrors.  It 
dosén't  fetch  him  anythe  sôoner,  nor  a  letter  from  him 
'  either,  and  it  is  just  killing  you  by  inches.  What  a  pity 
now,"  said  the  younger  ^fiss  Waddle,  gathering  ap  her 
manuscript  in  a  heap,  "  that  you  couldn't  write  a  story. 
You  couldn't,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"I  am  afraid  not,"  Norine  replied,  smiling.  «  I  am  not 
at  ail  clever  in  any  way.  I  only  wish  I  could  write  stories 
and  earn  money  as  you  do." 

"  Yes,  it's  very  nice  and  handy,"  said  the  younger  Miss 
Waddle,.  "  when  you're  not  *  respectfully  declined,'  Zhave 
been  *  respectfully  declined  '  oftener  than  I  like  to  think 
of.  But  I  am  going  to  make  a  hit  this  time,  if  I  die  for 
it.» 

"Yes,"  said  Norine,  gazing  in  respectful  awe  at  the 
smeary  looking  pile  of  writing;  «what  do  you  call  it  ?  'V 

"  This,"  said  the  authoress,  slapping  her  hand  on  the 
heap,  "  is  *iy  first  novel,  to  run  \n  sériai  form  in  the  Flag 
of,  the  Frek  Its  name  is  the  '  Démon  Dentist  ;  or  the 
Mystery  ofl  the  Doubles.  Tooth  1  '  What  do  you  think  of 
that?»  ^^ 

"The  Demon—w^tf/r»  asked  Mrs.  Laurence, ' ratheï 
aghast.  -  ^ 

"'The  Démon  Dentj^t.     The  title  is  rather  a  striïcîng 


■  ièt',.-,    ,4«ft^ 


9 


.'«« 


134 


JVORINE'S  J^E  VENGE. 


t .  f     r  "^i;^'  ^  ^"""^  "y^^^^'  ^^^  Pl°t  i«  ^-original  1 
the  title.    Lord  Racer,  only  son  of  the  Earl  of  Greentu^ 

the  hero  of  the  story,  steals  the  Lemon  stone,  the  maTifi 

cjentfamnydiamond,and  hides  it-where  do  you  tS 

e^LtirK  *°     '  ^'"^""  ^'"'^^''  sets  his  wisdom  tooth 
excayated,  bunes  it  m  the  cavernous  depths  of  the  molar 

butnoone  hmks  of  looking  in  Lord  Racer's  lower  jaw 
of  course.  Wilkie  Collins  has  written  a  novel  aboiH 
manwho  steals  a  diapond  in  his  sleep,  but  I  rather  think 
my  idea  is  a  step  ahead  of  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins.    Finally 

hère  s  'Lizabeth,  and  tea  not  ready." 

^.^u'ftfed'^^f  "  n"  '""T  J'^'P^'  "P  ^  consternation 
.g.-uttled    the   -Démon  Dentist;'  headforemost,  into  he; 

esk  and  made  a  rush  for  the  kitchen,  as  Miss  Waddie 
tlie  elder  opened  the  parlor  door. 

Nonne  took  a  step  forward,  her  face  flushing,  her  eyes 
kindhng  wuh  eager  hope,  her  breath  coming  quick.  She 
d  d  not  speak  a  word,  and  one  glanée  into  Miss  Waddle's 
pit}'ing  face  answered  that  breathless  look 

'No  letteryet,Mrs.  Laurence,"  she  said  verygently. 
"Iwaited  for  the  mail.»    .  /  6^""/. 

She  did  not  speak  a  word.  She  sat  down  suddenly. 
sick-.sick  to  the  very  heart  with  the  bitter  sensé  of  the 
disappomtment.  The  flush  faded  from  her  face,  the  light 
from  he.r  eyes  ;  she  drew  a  long,  dry,  sobbing  breath,  folded 
her  arms  on  the  table  and  laid  her  face  upon  them. 
^  Poor  httle  souil»  thought  the  elder  Miss  Waddie 
lookmg  at  her  in  silent  compassion.     «  What  brutea  meo 


'h 


i'Jt.Jàïtit; . 


THE  TRUTH. 


135 


Miss  Waddie's  expérience  of  the  nobler  sex  was  limited, 

but  her  sentiment  in  the  main  was  a  correct  one.     It  was 

peculiarly  correct  in  the  présent  instance,  for  since  that 

.morning  three  weeks  ago,  when  Laurence  Thomdyke  had 

•    left  Sea  View  Cottage,  not  a  word,  not  a  mèsâage,  not  a 

letterhadcomefrom  him.     How  the  lonely,  Ipnging  girl, 

left  in  the  dull  little  house,   watched  and  Waited,  and 

prayed,  and  grew  sick  to  the  soûl,  as  now,  with  disappoint- 

ment,  only  those  who  hâve  watched  and  waited  \n  vain,  for 

the  one  they  love  best  on  earth,  can  know. 

Was  he  sick-r-was  he  dead — was  he  faithleLs.     Why 
why,  why  did  h  i  not  write  ? 

They  were  the  two  questions  that   never  left  ihe  girl's 
mind.     She  lost  the  power  to  sleep  or  eat,  a  restless  fever 
held  her.     She  spent  her  days,  the  long,  vapid,  sickening 
days,  gazing  down  the  road  he  must  come,    the   nights 
âU  wakeful,  frightened  thought.     The   one   event  of  the 
twenty-four  dreary  hours,  was  the  coming  home  of  the  çlder 
/Vliss  Waddle  from  Chelsea  ;  the  one  hope  that  upheld  her, 
the  hope  that  each  day  she  would  bring  her  a   letter.     Ail 
this  long,  bleak  day  she  had  lived  on  that  one  feverish 
hope,  and  now  she  was  hère,  and  there  was  none — none  I 
The  moments  wore  on.   She  lay  there  prostrate,^crushed, 
never  moving  or  lifting  her  head.    Miss  Waddle  the  elder 
bent  over  her  with  tears  of  compassion  and  indignation 
in  her  kindly,  spinster  eyes. 

"  Dear  child,  "  she  said,  "  don't  take  on  like  this. 
Who  knows  what  to-morrow  may  bring  ?  And  if  it  brings 
nothing,  there  isn't  a  man  on  earth  worth  breakin^  your 
poor  heart  for,  as  you're  doing.  They're  a  set  of  selfish, 
heartless  wretches,  evefy  one— every  blessed  one  !  "  said 
the  elder  Miss  Waddle,  vindictive^y  ;  "  so  romi»  ^\(yx\g  antj 


^ 


<u  .  «ll^%h(..V  'm'^  i 


,«i^..v 


:m' 


v 


-^ 


136 


NORnVE'S  RE  VENGE . 


hâve  a  cup  of  tea,  and  don't  pine  yourself  to  death  for  hîm 

^^j)rine  lifted  her  face-such  a  sad,  pathetic,  patient  little 

"  Don't.  Miss  Waddle,"  she  said,  «  you  mean  well,  I  am 
sure,  but  I  can't  bear  it.  He  does  not  intend  to  forget  01 
neg  ect  me.  He  is  ill-l  know  that.  He  is  ill,  and  I 
dont  know  where  he  is,  or  how  to  go  to  him.  No. 
I  don  t  wish  any  tea,  a  mouthfui  of  food  would  choke  me 
I  thmk.  I  will  go  down  to  the  beach  instead.  I— I  would 
rather  be  alone.»  ^ 

The  gentle  lips  .  quivered.  the  gentle  voice  trembled 
over  the  loyal,  wifely  words.  Not  neglectfui,  not  faith- 
less,  only  ill,  and  unable  to  write  -  she  crushed  everv 
other  thought  out  of  herheart  but  that.  She  rose  took 
hej  hat,  and  quitted  the  room.  Miss  Waddle  looked  aftër 
hér,  and  shook  her  head  dismally. 

"Poor  dearl»  she  thought.    «only  ill,  indeed  I      Mt 
Laurence,  if  that  be  his  name,  is  a  very  good-lookiSg 
youngman.  and  there.  it's  my  opinion.  '  the  young  man's 
goodness  begins  and  ends.     He  raay  not  hâve  deserted 
her.  but  it  looks  uncommonly  like  it.    Why.  he  was  tired 
of  her  before  they  were  hère  a  week." 
'    Then  Miss  Waddle,  the  elder,  went  and  took  «  tired 
Nature's  sweet  restorer.  balmy  "-tea,  and  Mrs.  Laurence, 
with  ail  hope  and  life  crushed  out  of  her  fair  young  face^ 
went  down  along  the  sands.  where  so  often  in  the  flrst  happy 
days  they  had  wandered  together.^   Only  seven  wéeks  ïïo 
smce  she  had  left  ail  for  him-friends.  home.  loVer.  trt^ 
and  honor-wjiy,  rt  seemed  years  to  look  back  upon.    She 
gtjUd  ând  wom  and  tired-a  horrible  creeping  f.ar 


( 


Àtte<Jfek 


.■liiHkÉll. 


•'Ji.'ii'- -"  1?^;-    r.".-'""'='<Jf»J 


THE    TRUTH. 


137 


Why  did  he  not  write— why  did  he 


clutched  her  heart. 
not  corne  ? 

She  reached  the  little  grassy  hillock  and  sat  down,  too 
weak  and  spiritless,  even  to  walk  on.  Cold  and  gray,  the 
twilight  was  falling,'  cold  and  gray  spread  the  low  lying 
twilight  sky,  cold  and  gray  the  dim  sea  melted  into  it  in 
the  distance,  cold  and  gray  like  her  life.  It  was  very 
lonely,  no  human  being  besides  herself  was  so  be  seen, 
not  even  a  sea  bird  skimmed  the  sullen  waters.  With 
her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her  sad,  yearning  eyes.  fixed 
on  thedreary  sea,  she  sat  still,  thinking,  thinking.  Why 
did  he  not  write— why  did  he  not  corne  ? 

Suddenly,  coming  as  if  from  the  cottage,  a  figure 
appeared  in  view,  the  solitary  figure  of  a  man,  moving 
rapidly  toward  hçr  over  the  sands.  She  looked  up  quickly, 
uttered  a  faint  cry  of  récognition  and  hope.  As  he  had 
corne  abruptly  upon  them  once  before,  Mr.  Liston  came 
abruptly  upon  her  again.  Then  it  had  beeiî  to  bear  her 
darling  away  from  lier— now  it  was  to  bring  he^  news  of 
him,  she  knew. 

She  did  not  rise  to  meet  him.  Her  heart  beat  so  fast 
with  alternate  hope  and  fear  that  for  an  instant  she  tumed 
faint.    In  that  instant  he  was  beside  her.    He  lif ted  his  hat. 

"  Mrs.  Laurence  ?  "  he  said,  interrogatively,  "  they  told 
me  at  the  house  I^shoutci  find  you  hère.  .  They  wished  to 
call  you  in,  but  this  is  a  better  place  for  our  meeting,  so  I 
sought  you  out." 

She  made  a  breathless,  impatient  gesture. 

"  You  hâve  a  letter  for  me  ?"  she  said,  hurriedly  ;  "he 
sent  you— he  is  well  ?  " 

.  "  Hs  sent  me— yes.    And  he  is  well— oh,  yes.    I  hâve 
J  noteior  ymv  tooyirom  him»  but  I  wtll  not  show  itto^yoïr" 


îéâk 


MM^i^Àlâr^àii 


S?!*tsS5«Sl«!43!";«nfr*».'- 


.."î^^^^pA^s^y'  .  -^ï-  w-4  t^jAt.  A  L:x^  „•; 


ijiÊM . 


I  ■; 


\ 


138 


NORINEPS  ÀEVENGE. 


just  yet,  if  you  will  allow  me     My  dear  young  ladv  I  hav« 

more  than  his  words,  made  her  look  quickly  up.    To  his 
dying  day,  James  Liston  never  forgot  the  haunted,  terrified 
look  m   those  dilàting,  dark  eyes.     She  laid  her  hand 
over  her  fast  beating  heart.  and  spoke  with  an  efforî. 
He  is  well,  you  say  ?  "  she  panted. 
'  we^e^id^"' """•  ''"''"'^"    Itwerebetterforyouhe; 
"^Sir  î  »  she   cried,  the  light  leaping  to  her  eyes   the 
flushto  herface;  "howdareyou!  He^s  my  huXndl 
how  dare  you  say  such  a  thing  to  me  I  " 
"  He  is  not  your  husband."  -  • 

The  low,  level,  monotonous  voice  spoke  the  dreadfui 
words  the  small.  light,  glimmering  eyes  were  fixed  im- 
movably  upon  her  with  a  look,  half-contemptuous,  half^om- 
passionate,  in  their  depths. 

hîm^'  w  ^  ^^r^"^  '°  ^^'  ^^^^  ^"^  ^'°°^  '^ï^'^kly  siaring  at 
nim.    Was  the  man  mad  ? 

«  Not  my-"  she  paused  irresolute.    Should  she  run 
away  from  this  madman  or  sitand  her  ground.     «  Give  me 

Wh'Ir.TbMHT  ■~""T^'  '^  t«"  of  compassion!  ' 
What  achidsh,  was,  he  was  thinling;  how  she  Joved 
hun     Wiatwas  th^re  about  this  young  fello»  that  womea 
J*ouId  gjve  up  ail  tha.  made  their  lives  most  de^X 


r 


.  >.^<iS; 


THE  TRUTH. 


139 


«I  told  you,  Mrs.  Laurence,  I  hâve  been  sent  hère  on  a 


Me  sent    me.    'Conscience 


hard  and  painful    errand. 

Biakes  cowards  of  us  ail.'  He  is  a  coward  as  well  as  a 
villain,  and  he  hâd  not  the  courage  to  face  you  himself.  You 
hâve  been  watching  and  waiting  for  his  return,  I  know. 
Watch  and  wait  no  longer;  you  will  never  see  Laurence 
Thomdyke  again." 

A  cry  broke  from  her  lips— a  cry  that  rang  in  his  ears  his 
•  life  long— a  cry  not  loud,  but  exceedingly  bitter. 

"  In  Heaven's  name,  spe^k  and  tell  me  what  is  it  you 
mean?"  .         " 

"  This  :  You  are  not  a  wife— Laurence  Thomdyke  nëver 
married  you.  He  deceived  and  betrayed  you  from  the  first  ; 
he  has  deserted  you  forever  at  the  lasf.  That  is  the  task 
he  has  set  me.  I  am  but  a  poor  diplomat  to  break  bad 
news,  asihey  call  it,  to  any  one,  so  I  blurt  out  the  truth  àt 
once.  After  ail,  it  is  the  same  in  the  end.  He  never  meant 
to  marry  you— he  never  cared  for  you  enoughl  He  hated 
Richard  pilbert— that  was  the  beginning  and  end  of  it.  He 
hated  Gilbert,  Gilbert  loved  you,  and  was  about  to  make 
you  his  wife  ;  to  revenge  himself  on  Gilbert,  he  went  back 
to  Kent  Hill  and  carried  you  oflF.  He  knew  you  loved  Mm, 
and  it  would  not  be  à  difficult  task.  It  seems  easy  enough 
for  ail  women  to  love  Laurence  Thomdyke." 

The  last  words,  spoken  more  to  himself  than  to  her, 
were'fuU  of  bitterness.  A  great  stillness  had  fallen  upon 
her— her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face,  her  o^n  sfrained  and 
fixed. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said,  her  teeth  set  hard. 

"  He  took  you  away— how,  yoU  know  best,  and  in  Boston 
that  mockery  of  marriage  wasgone  through.  Miss  Bourdon 
J^l^gP^gfiigJ^^ractor.  not  ajclergyman,Abe^ 


•  f 


•tUS^i/daatti^ 


:'^ï.y 


M- 


140 


NOJi/JVE^S  REVENGE. 


as  innocent  as  her  native  daisie,     aJ^u  '"«SS. 

différence,  but  she's  onè  nf  .h?    J  .u        "  "'""  '="<'*  "■« 

'desperatiàn,  an7al  I.  sort  „rtH     ''  1"  '°^'  ="  ''"°"  «• 

herweddingrine     LeT  W  Z   V        . '°  "  "<'"' "'"'°'« 
t^e  a  s,or^  cutVatl'ri  "r  al"?  t^-^'"^^^ 

f  wete  wiX  r  Lrjsr  r  sxrr- 

«2srn;ZTclr,ar;:r'--''«^-Va, 
Goon,''shesaidagain 

o-y.oog,ad"olX'c,^°a^^*g:"lS*;/J^f'-     «"^  "- 

back.    Hère  ishis  note-read  it    h       •     i  "'''««'"'« 

.  pve  me,  .0  pay  you.  bo^^Trn^Jl^rb^ Jt  Z7  '^ 

m  Maine.   He  thinks  it  k  ri.^  Ko  *  J-  °  your  home 

awful  despair.    Butl^hll.    .       f^""  '^^"^'"^  »"  ^er 
denly  as  Ft  were  frl' ^he  Zd^  ^^^«^^  ^^^  --  «^-^  sud- 

«  He  said  VAan"  she  asked  hoarselv     «  H.  f.w 
take  me  back  there-Iike  this  >  „    *^^^-       ^^  ^«^^  you  to 
"Hedid."  ."«5f 

-'My  curse  upon  Him-my  c„,sefollow  him  through  Jife  I  " 


-«u*'  f 


Î,  • 


v'ûtojL,-,^'» -iiia^AïH  ».-^1     •' 


j^      ^    -1^*       w,    i,^ 


/ 


ould  huf, 
en  as  the 
toWaggs, 
know  the 
i  fellow  to 
e  a  water- 
i  without 
: — always 
you  got 
5,  and  by 
through. 
of  whose 
the  love 
!  of  the 

rRter,  as 


îre,  and 
He  was 
îrcome 
)ney  he 
irhome 

b,  stilh 
in  her 
:k  sud< 

If 

you  to 


lifel" 


T//E  TRUTH. 


141 


The  man  before  her  actually  recoîled.  She  had  uplif ted 
one  arm,  and  in  the  gathering  darkness  of  the  night,  she 
stpod  before  him  white  and  terrible.  So,  for  a  second— 
theh  she  came  back  to  herself,  and  tore  open  the  note 
Only  half  a  dozenvTjrief  lines— the  tragédies  of  life  are 
ever  quickly  written. 

«Believe  ail  that  Liston  tells  you.  I  hâve  been  the 
greatesf  scoundrel  oh  earth  to  you,  my  poor  Norine.  I 
don't  ask  you  to  forgive  me— -that  would  not  be  human,  I 
only  ask  you  to  go  and— -if  you  can— f orget. 

"  L.  T  *"' 

No  moré.     She  looked  up— out  over  the  creeping  night 

on  the  sea,  over  the  lonely,  white  sands,  and  stSod  fixed 

^"d  "»^te.    The  lèttèf  ^he  had  looked  forTlonged  for 
prayed  for,  she  had  got  at  last  I  ' 

'  In  the  dead  stillness  that  followed,  Mr.  Liston  felt  more 
uncomfortable,  perhaps,  then  hehad  ever  felt  before  in  the 
whole  course  of  his  life.    In  slieer  desperation  he  broke  it 

"You  are  not  angry  with  me,  I  hope,  Mrs.  Laurence  •  I 
am  but  his  uncle's  servant— when  I  amordered  I  must  obey 
He  was  afraid  to  write  ail  this  ;  it  would  be  iveiy  damage 
mg  confession  to  put  on  paper,  so  he  sent  me.  You  are 
not  angty  with  me  ?  " 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  head  in  a  lost,  dazed  sort  of  way. 

"Angry  with  you?  Oh,  no— why  should  I  be  ?  My 
head  feels  strange— dizzy,— I  don't  want  to  hear  any 
moré  to-night.     I  think  I  will  go  home." 

She  tutned  slowly.  He  stood  watching  her  with  an  anx- 
lous  face.  What  he  knew  would  corne,  «ame.  She  had 
walked  some  dozen  yàrds,  then  suddenly— without  warn- 
ing,  Word  or  sound,sh^  fell  heavily,  face  downward.  like  a 
stonc  V       -.      - -  ■■— ■- /■  ■  — 


.■„<ç. 


•îJiiL.^SLÉi±'h^^ik%{A.  -,%j't 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MR.     LISTON's    STORY 

NOTHEH  autumnal  twilight,  ghostly  and  gray. 
is  creeping  over  the  Chelsea  shore.     In  her 
pleasant  chamber  in  the  Chelsea  cottage,  Norine 
hes  on  her  white  bed  and  looks  out  upon  it 
Looks  ouj  but  s^es  nothing.     The  dark,  burning,  brluiant 
eyes  m,ght  be  stone  blind  for  ail  they  see  of  tke  windy 
fast  dnft.ng  sky,  of  the  strip  of  wet  id  slijpery  sands' 
of  the   white-capped  sea  beyond.     She  migHrbe  stone 
deaf  for  ail  she  hears  of  the  wintry  soughing  of  the  wind,  of 
the  dull,  ceasless  boom  of  the  sea  on  the  shore,  or  the 

as^she  has  lam  fromthe  first-rigid-stricken  soûl  and 

L^t  evening,  a  little  later  than  this,  the  Misses  Waddle 
had  sprung  frorn  their  seats  with  two  shrill  little  shrieks 
at  the  apparition  of  Mr.  Liston  entering  hastily  ^^Mt 
Laurence  lying  dead  in  his  arms.     Déad  to  ail  oi.tward 

and  apphed  the  usual  restonàives,  the  eyelids  quivered. 
the  dusk  eyes  opened,  and  with  a  strange,  shuddering  sob 
she  came  back  to  life.    For  one  instant  she  gazed  un    nto 
the    kindly,   anxious  faces  of  the  spinster  sisters^  Z 

wife;  he  had  betrayed  and  cast  her  off  ;  she  would  nevei 


/*-:*- 


'^tK'jf'iîi 


and  gray, 
In  her 
e,  Norine 
upon  it. 
brilliant 
le  windy 
y  sands^ 
3e  stone 
wind,  of 
!,  or  the 
ies  hère 
oui  and 

Waddle 
shrieks 
th  Mrs. 
«itward 
in  bed, 
livered, 
ig  sob, 
p  into 
;  then 
rence's 
nevei 


■4 


4 


% 


K 


Âf/t.  ZISTON'S  STORV,, 


143 


look  upon  his  face  again  in  this  world.    With  a  low  moan 
ol  agony  t^le  sisters  never  forgot,  she-turned  her  face  to 

.      the  wall  and  lay  still;     So  she  had  lain  since. 

_       A  night  and  a  day  had  passed.     She  had  neither  slept 
nor  eaten— she  had  scarcely  moved— she  Jay  like  a  stone 
AU  night  long  the  light  had  burned,  ail  night  long  thé 
sisters  stole  ^oftly  in  and  out,  always  to  find  the  small 
ngid  figure,  as  theyhad  left  it  ;  the  white  face  gleaming 
like  marbléin  the  dusk  ;  the  sleepless  black  eyes,  wild 
and  wide.   They  spoke  to  her  in  fear  and  trembling.    ^he 
did  not  heed,  it  is  doubtful  if  she  heard.     In  a  dull,  dumb 
trance  she  lay;  curiously  conscious  of  the  figures  flitting 
to  and  fro  ;  of  whispered  words  and  frightened  faces  ;  of 
the  beat  of  therain  on  the  glass  ;  of  the  black  night  lying 
on  the  black  sea,  her  beart  liké  a  stone  in  her  bosom. 
She  was  not  Laurence's  wife— Laurence  had  left  her  for 
ever.    Thèse  two  thoughts  kept  beating,  beating,  in  lieart 
and  brain,  and  soûl,  like  the  ceaseless  torment  of  thé 
lost.  . 

The  new  day  came  and  went  With  it  came  Mr.  Liston 
-  —pale,  quiefi  anxious.  The  Misses  Waddle,  angry  and 
curions,  at  once  plied  him  with  questions.  What  was  it  ail 
about?  What  had  he  said  to  Mrs.  Laurence?  Where  was 
Mr.  Laurence.?  Was  it  ill  news  of  him  ?  And  little  Mr. 
Liston,  with  a  face  of  real  pain  and  distress,  had  madê 
answer"Yes,  it  WM^iU  news  of  Mr.  Laurence.  Would 
they  please  not^jrfThim  questions  ?  He  couldn't  really 
tell.  For  H«tf1^n's  sake  let  them  try  and  bring  that  poor 
suffering  child  round.  He  would  pay  every  cent  due 
them,  and  take  her  away  the  moment  she  was  able  to 
travel. 

_^Hft  sits  iatfae  little  parier  now,  his  faead  on  his  handr" 


ik' 


^^'.^ 


144 


NORINE'S  HE  VENGE. 


gazmg  out  at  the  gloomy  evening  prospect,'  with  a  verv 
downcast  and  -gloomy  face.  He  is  alone,  a  bit  of  fire 
flickers  and  falls  in  the  grate.  Miss  Waddle  the  elder  is 
not  yet  at  home  from  her  Chelsea  school.  Miss  Waddle 
t  le  younger,  in  a  glow  of  inky  inspiration,  is  skurrying 
through^a  thrilling  chapter  of'The  Mystery  of  the 
Double  Tooth,"  and  within  that  inner  room,  at  which  he 
gazes  with  such  troubled  eyes,  «one  more  unfortunate" 
lies  battlmg  with  woman's  utter  despair. 

"Poor  soûl,"   Mr.  Liston  says  inwardly.     "Willtehe 
pensh  as  Lucy  West  perished,  whilehe  lives  and  marries. 
«  nch,   courted,   and  happy  ?  No,  I   will  tell  l^er   the 
truth  sooner,  that.she  is  his  wife,  that  the  marriage  was 
^gal,  though  he   does  not  suspect  it,  and  when  Helen 
Holmes  is  h,s  wife  she  shall  corne  forward  and  convict  him 
of  bigamy   and  my  lordly  Mr.  Laurence,  how  will  it  be 
with  you  then  !  "      . 
"  Mr.  Liston." 

He  had  literally  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a  nervous  cry 
He  had.heard  no  sound,  but  the  Chamber  door  had  opened 
and  she  had  corne  forth.    Her  soft  French  accented  voice 

befnrtï-'  T"":  "^  ?"  '^^^"""^   gloaming    she  stood 
before  him,  her  face  white  and  stiU,  and  awfully  death-like 
As  she  came   forwaxd  in  her  white  dressing  eown    he^ 
loose  black  hair  falling.   her  great  black  eyef  ^Infn" 

record '"^  "°'^^^'  '"^  "^^  ^  '^^''^  "^^^  involuntarily  he 

I  ild  nnTt  "'"'"'^^^  ^°"'"  '^"  '"'^-     "  ^  ^^g  yo"r  pardon. 
I  did  not  know  you  were  hère,  but  I  am  glad  you  are     X 

^orrow  I  will  leave  this  hou^to-night  I  sLldlike  to 
»ay  a  few  words  to  you."  ^       y*    ^^  w 

ShewîLS  very  quiet,  ominously  quiet.     Shésatdownas 


■lai4iî»ftài.u,  Jj».-a.i^t,.     ,.,'•'       'à^f 


MR.  LISTOJSrs  STORY. 


145 


she  spoke,  close  to  the  fire  :  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap, 
her  weird  looking  eyes  fixed  on   his  face.     Nervously 
Mr.  Liston  got  up  and  looked  around  for  a  bail. 
,     "  Shall  I  ring,  I  meancall,  for  lights.      I  am  very  glad 
to  see  you  up,  Miss  Bpùr— I  mean  Mrs.  Laurence." 

"Thank  you"  she  answered  gently  "and  no,  please— 
don't  ask  for  a  lamp..  Suf:h  a  wretch  as  ï^am  naturally 
prefers  the  dark.  Mr.  "  Liston,"  with  Etrange,  swift 
abruptness,  "  I  hâve  lain  in  there,  and  within  the  last 
few  hours  I  haive  been  able  to  think.  I  believc  ail 
Aatyou  hâve  told  me.  I  know  what  J  am— as  utterly 
:ost  and  forl^rn  a  sinner  as  the  wide  earth  holds.  I 
know  what  /5^  is— a  greater  villain  than  if,  on  the  night  I 
sl|v  him  first,  he  had  stabbeâ  me  to  the  he^t.  AU  this  I 
know.  Mr.  Liston,  will  you  tell  me  something  more. 
Are  you  Laurence  Thorndyke's  friend  or  enemy  ?  " 

In  the  course  of  his  forty  years  of  life,  Mr.  Liston  had 
corne  across  a  good  many  incompréhensible  women,  but 
perhaps,  he  had  never  been  quite  so  completely  taken 
aback  before.  She  spokg  the  name  of  her  betrayer,  of  the 
man  she  had  loved  so  passionately,  and  ih  one  moment 
had  lost  for  ever,  without  one  tremor  or  falter.  Thfe 
sombre  eyes  were  looking  at  him  full.  He  drew  nearer  to 
her— a  great  exultation  in  his  soûl.  This  girl  was  made  of 
stemer  stuff  than  Lucy  West.  Laurence  Thorndyke's 
hour  had  come. 

<*  Am  I  Laurence  Thorndyke's  friend  or  enemy?  His 
enemy,  Miss  Bourdon— his  bitterest  enemy  ofrx  earth  for 
the  last  five  years.*'  .     •  a 

"I  thoughtso.    I  don't  know  why,  but  I  thought  sa 
Mr.  Liston,  what  has  he  donc  to  you  ?" 
^' JlJiÉtgd  and  darkened  my  life,  as  he  has  Mighted  «id 

7"-      r..< 


) 


s,    ,* 


^'" 


-  > 


146 


m. 


/" 


NORINEfs  REVENG^, 


-^a  was  L„c/we«  I  hld  r        T  "'^  "'^"-     ^" 
wasataostdoubS"  t  ,"T  ^"  fr°™  («byhood, 

teea  ^'"'  °^  '"'  ''"8'«  'y'>  and  s,&kli„g 

adn,fred  b^T^    "IStl  ""^m""^  i.  'o'^"  -^ 
the  world  hasto  tet  ^         °'  *'  °"'''  """« 

■  read    that    letter.    I  hear  the   shouts  of   the' 


s^    '\ 


•^ 


&-4.«-î#    ,v. 


MU.  L/SrOuV'S  STORY. 


m; 


\m 


chîldren  at  play,  the  hot,  white  quiver  of  the  blazîng  August 
noonday.  ^  • 

*'  Lucy  had  gone,  fan  away  from  home  with  a  young 
m  an,  nobody  knew  who  for  certain,  but  everybody  thought 
with  the  young  gentleman  I  had*brought  there,  Mr. 
Thorndyke.  I  had  trusted  h4r,  krs.  Laurence,  as  I  tell  you 
I  had  loved  and  ttusted  them  both  entirely.  I  sat  there 
stupefied,  I  need  not  tell  youwhat  I  suflfered.  Next  day 
I  went  down  to  the  village.  Her  mother  was  nearly  crazed, 
the  whole  village  was  gossipping  the  shamèful  story.  He 
—or  some  oiîe  like  him,  had  been  seen  haunting  the  out- 
skirts  of  the  village,  she  h^d  stolen,  evening  after  evening, 
to  some  secret  tryst.      ■)f 

"  She  had  left  a  not^*  she  couldn't  marry  old  Liston,' 
she  said  ;  '  she  had  gone  àway  with  somebody  she  liked  ten 
thousand  times  better.  tI ey  nèedn't  look  for  her.  Ifiie 
made  her  a  lady  she  would  corne  back  of  herself,  if  not— -but 
it  was  no  use  their  looking  for  her.  Tell  Mr.  Liston  she  was  . 
sorry,  and  she  Ijpped  mother  wouldn't  make  a  fuss,  and 
she  was  her  aflfectibnate  daughter,  Lucy.'   %..■  ^ 

"  I  sat  and  read  the  curiously  heartle^  words,  and  I 
knew  just  as  well  as  if  she  had  said  se,  that  it  was  with 
young  Laurence  she  had  gone.  I  knew,  too,  for  the  first 
time,  how  altogether  heartless,  base,  and  worthless  was  this 
girl.  But  there  was  nothing  to  be  said  or  done.  % 
went  back  to  New  York,  to  my  old  îife,  in  a  stupid^ 
plodding  sort  of  way.  I  said  nothing  to  Mr.  Darcy.  I  sold 
oflf  the  pretty  furnituré{  I  waited  for  young  Mr.  Laurence 
to  retum  ;  he  did  return  at  Christmas— h^dsome,  high^ 
spirited,  and  dashîng  as  ever.  But  he  rather  shrank  from 
^^^ndlsawit.  t  went  up  to  him  on  the  nightofhit 
VTWidi?idn%askcdfaimiJliêqpestfôo7 


^• 


Ê 


.''.(."uT     _.'    V    .,«*,.LlC*.>(M4-"Vi^       -?    !(■ 


t 


I4S 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 


«5 


V 


" *  Ml.  Laurence,  what  hâve  you  done  with  Lucy.  West? 

"  He  turned  red  to  his  temples,  he  wasn't  too  old  o/too 
•    haidened  to  blush  then,  but  he  denied  everything.    t/ing, 
--cold,  barefaced  lying,  is  one  of  Mr.  Thorrtdyke's /prin- 
cipal acconjplishments. 

"*  He  knewnothingof  Lucy  West— how  dared  I  inéinuate 
sucha.thing  '  Straightening  himself  up  haught^.  *If 
she  had  run  away  from  me,  with  some  youn^r,  better 
looking  £ellow,itwas  only  what  I  might  hâve/ expected. 
Butfools  of  forty  will  never  be  wise;'  and  then,  with  a 
sneering  laugh,  and  his  hands  in  his-  pocket^  my  young 
pasha.stroUs  away^  and  we  spoke  of  Lucy  We^t  no  more. 

"That  was    five   years    ago.      One    winjfer    night,   a 

year-lftèr,  walking  up  Grand   strêet  about/ten  o'clock, 

three  young^  women  came  laughing  and  talking  loudly 

t)wards  me.    It  needetj  no  second  look  at  their  painted 

faces,  their  tawdry  silk4,and  gaudy.'jewelry,'  to  tell  what 

they  were.    But  one  fate— ahl  I  had  seen  it  last  fresh' 

and^nhocent,  do^among  the  peaceful  fields?    Our  eye's 

met  j  the  loudXvlP,  the  loud  words,  seemed  to  freeze  on 

her  lips— she  «"ew  white  under  ail  the  paint  she  wore.   She 

turned   like^  flash  and    tried  to  run— I  followed  and 

caught  he^n  five  seconds.     I  grasped  her  arm  and  held 

her  fast,  sàvagely,  I  suppose,  for  she  trembled  as  she  looked 

at  tne.  ,        _         -* 

"  ''§et  me  go,  Mr.  Liston,'  she  said,  in  a  shaking  voice  ; 
^youiiurtmel' 

*'*  No,  by  Heaven,'  I  said,  '  not  until  you  answer  me  half 
fl  dozeti  questions.  The  first  is  :  '  Was  it  Laurence  Thorn- 
dyke  with  whom  you  ran  away  ?  * 

"  Her  eyes  flaslied  fire,  the  çolor  came  back  to  her  face,  ' 
her  hands  clenched.    She  burst  fûrth  into  such  a  torrent  ol- 


\V 


^> 


.  .^.- 


f  •«■ 


:T'>g2ÏE'i~'''*"Y     „ 


y=^-% 


.  ,  "V    ut  "V'ir^  " 


-^i?.  LISTON' S  STORY, 


149 


words,  choked^with  rage,  înterlardéd  with  oaths,  that  my 
blood  ran  cold,  that  my  pasâîon  côoled  before  it.  She 
had  been  inveigled  ^way  by  Thomdyke,  there  was  nô 
sham  marriage  hère — no  promise  oif  marriage  evèn  ;  î  wiJJ 
do  him  that  justice,  and  in  six  montais,  friendless  and  penni- 
less,  she  was  adrift  in  the  streets  bf  New  York.  She  was 
looking  for  him  night  and  day,  if  ever  she  met  him  she 
would  tear  the  very  eyes  out  of  hîs  head  1 

"  Would  she  go  home  ?  I  askqid  her.  I  would  pay  her 
way — her  mother  would  receive  and  pardon  her. 

"  She  laughed  in  my  face.  ^^H^at  !  take  my  money— of 
ail  men  !  go  back  to  the  village  A;\(here  ooce  she  had  queened 
it  over  ail  the  girls— like  this  I  i  She  broke  from  me,  .and 
her  shrill,  mocking  laugh  can^e  back  as  she  ran  and 
joined  her  companions.     I  hav^  never  seen  her  since. 

"  That  is  my  story,  Miss  Bourdon.  Two  years  hâve  passed 
since  that  night — ^my  duU  life  goes  on — I  serve  Mr.  Darcy 
—I  watch  Mr.  Thomdyke.  I^îiavecome  to  his  aid  more 
than  once,  I  hâve  screened  hi^  evil  deeds  from  his  uncle 
as  r  hâve  screened  this.  H^  is  to  be  married  the  first 
week  ofeDecember  to  Miss  H^len  Holmes,  a  beautiful  girl 
and  an  heiress.  The  last  dutt  I  am.to  perform  for  him  is 
to  hush  up  this  story  of  yours,  to  restore  you  to  your  friehds 
like  a  baie  of  damaged  gô^df  But  I  think  his  time  has 
corne  ;  I  think  it  should  be  ouj-  tum  now.  It  is  for  you  and 
me  to  say  whether  he  shall]  inherit  his-  uncle's  fortune 
— whether  he  shall  marry  Helen  Holmes  omet" 


I 


/■ 


^^'^3&^ 


.'■s'i^V'T-^-'j'-ï^^i-^^-rf'^*' '■•     *       J/^  '«■  ' 


m 


■'!»'*• 


CHAPTER  rZV. 


A    DARK     COMPACT. 


HE  twilight  had  deepened  almost  into  dark- 
ness.     Mr.  Liston  unconsciously,  in  the  excite- 
ment  of  the  tragedy  of  his  life,  told  now  for 
the  first  time,  had  risen,  ând  was  walking  up 
and  down  the  room.     His  quiet  voice,  never  rising  above  its 
usual  monotonous  level,  was  yet  full  of  suppressed  fèeling 
and  passion.    Now,  as  he  ceased,  he  looked  toward  the 
still  figure  sitting  so  motionless  before  the  smouldering  fire. 
She  had  not  stirred  once,  the  fixed  whi'teness  of  her  face 
had  not  altered.      The  large,  luqMnous  eyes  looked  into  the 
dying  redness  in  the  grate,  the  Ifps  were  set  in  one  tense 
tight  line.     Until  last  night  she  had  been  but  a  child,  the 
veriestchild  in  tHe  tragic  drama  of  life,  the  sin  and  shame, 
the  utter  misery  of  the  world  to  her  a  sealed  book.     Ail  at 
once  the  black,  bitter  page  had  opened,  she  was  one  of  the 
lost  h^elf,  love,  truth,  honor— there  werè  none  on  earth. 
A  loathing  of  herself,  of  him,  of  life,  filled  her— an  unspeak- 
able  bittemesç  weighed  her  down  body  and  soûl. 

"  You  do  not  speak.  Miss  Bourdon,"  Mr.  Liston  said, 
uneasily.     "  You— you  hâve  not  fallen  asleep  ?  " 

"  Asleep  1  »  she  laughed  a  little,  strangely  sounding 
laugh.    «  Not  likely,  Mr.  Liston  ;  I  hâve  been  listening  to 


'MSà^^ià^^M^jli^^è.iitii^^'JtMiL.'i.: 


«  ■^P'jJV-f^f  "Ijff?^- 


5^"^ 


.•  '«  ~  •',^, 


A  DARK  COMPACT. 


ISï 


^ 


tace 

m 


your  story — ^not  a  pleasant  story  to  listen  t6  or  to  tell.  1 
am  sorry  for  you,  I  am  sorry  for  her.  Oiir  stories  are 
strangely  alike — ^we  hâve  both  thrown  over  good  and  loyal 
men  to  become  a  villain's  victim.  Wp  havfe  no  one  to  thank 
but  ourselves.  More  or  less,  we  both  richly  deserve  our 
fate." 

There  was  a  hard,  reckless  bittçmess  in  the  words,  in 
the  tone.  She  had  not  shed  a  tear  sipce  the  blow  had 
fallen.  •  ^         ^ 

Mr.  Listbn  paused  in  his  walk  and  strove  to  read  her 

Both  ?  "  he  said.  "  No,  Miss  Bourdon.  She,  perhaps, 
you  do  not.  You  believed  yourself  his  wife,  in  ail 
honbr  and  truth  ;  to  you  no  stain  of  guilt  attaches.  But  ail 
the  blacker  is  his  dasta^dlylSètrayal  of  you.  Without  even 
the  excuse  of  loving  you,  he  forced  you  from  home,  only 
to  gratify  his  brutal  malice  against  Richard  Gilbert.  He 
told  me  so  himself  ;  out  of  his  own  mouth  he  stands  con- 
demned." 

She  shivered  suddenly,  she  shrank  as  though  he  had 
struck  her.  From  first  to  last  she  had  been  fooled  ;  that 
was,  perhaps,  the  cruelest,  sharpest  blow  of  ail,  to  know 
that  Laurence  Thomdyke  had  never  for  one  poor  instant 
loved  her,  that  hatred,  not  love,  had  been  at  the  bottom  (A 
it  ail. 

"  Don't  let  us  speak  of  it,"  she  said,  hoarsely.  "I-— 
I  can't  bear  it.  "^O  Heaven!  what  hâve  I  done?" 

She  coveréd  her  face  with  her  hands,  a  dry,  shuddering 
sob  shaking  her  from  head  to  foot 

"  If  I  could  çnly  die,"  she  thought,  witli  a  pang  of  horri- 
ble  agony  and  fear  ;  "  If  I  dared  only  die  I  " 
— "T.isten  to-uxey  Mrs,  Laurence^"  Mr.  lâste» 


m\ 


i^î,  V  ij-n:*î,dy!i> 


i»4S^. 


r  J.i  .i  'j-  1t^ 


f^ 


152 


NORiNEPs  rkve:nge. 


ily,  and  as  if  he  read  her  thoughts.     "  Don't  desnair  -  Vn» 
hâve  something  to  live  for  yet.''  ^      '  ^ 

JllT'"'^^^  '°  "^^  for'?.»'she  repeaied,  in  the  same 
stifled  tones.     "What?".  "»  •"  "le  same 

.    ,'  "  Revenge.»  . 

"What?"  \ 

"  Revenge  upon  Laurence  Thomdyke.     It  is  your  riphf 

"Frommyhand?    How?"  '  ' 

Hotû  T.Tf  ™'  ¥°^^  «"gh   Darcy  and   Helen 
Ho  me^  and  tell  your  stol^  as  it  stands.     MVwordforit!  - 

T         ^  a?u'  "^''^^'  ^"'^^'"S  "^  fortune  in  store  fo^ 
Laurence  Thomdyke  after  that." 

'      Her  blaçk  eyes  lit  and  flashed  for  a  moment  with  somô 
of  h,s,own  vengeful  fife.     She  drew  her  breath  hard. 
"Youthinkthis?»shesaid. 

w"ln''''i^''-  ^^™'  "S°'^"^  justice  to  ail  hien  is 
Hugh  Darcy;^  motto.  And  Miss  Holmes  is  as  proud  and 
pure  and  womanly  as  she  is  rich  and  beautif^l.  She 
would  çast  him  off,  though  they  stood  at  the  altar  " 

Herhps  set  themselves  tighter  in  that  tense  line.  She 
sa  stanng  steadfastly  into  the  fire,  her  breast  rising  and 
falhngwiththetumultwithin. 

The  little  clôck  on  the  mantel  ticked  fast  and  loud  •  the 
ceaseless  patter,  patter  of  the  autumnal  rain  tapped'iike 
ghostly  Angers  on  the  pane.  Down  on  the  shore  below 
the  long,  sullen  breakers  bbomed.    The  mao  s  heart  beat 


l 


N,- 


,^ 


xi-'^  it .  «* '4,',à#Jfv*  j 


V  '1 


',. 


-(4 


A  DARK  COMPACT. 


'53 


as  he  «r^ted     He  had  looked  forward  to  some  such  hour  " 
as  this  for  five  long  years,to' plot  and  plan  his  enemy's 
ruin.     And  in  this  girl's  hands  it  lay  to-hight. 
At  last. 

'^Doyou  mean  Miss  Hoimes?     Only  toc  well,  I  fear.  , 
.    Mrs  Laurence.    As  I  hâve  said,  it  cornes  easiJjTto  àll  à 
you  to  loçe  your  hearts  to  Mr.  Thorndyke  " 

She  never  heeded  the  savage  sarcasm  of  his  tone     A 
tumult  of  temptation  was  warring  withm  her  .*      ' 

"And  she  is  young  and  gentle,  and  pyrê  and  good? 
she  wenton.  .  s  "«» 

"  Ail  that  and  more.    A  beautifuT  and  gracious  la<i^as 
,  ever.  drew  breath."  .  «jr  « 

"AndIamnothis.wife.     And  you  tell   me  she  Wes 
and  trusts  him.    Yes  f    it  is  easy  to  do  that  !    If  she  casfs 
h,m  offshe>Il  break -herown-heart.-.    She^tlea%thai   - 
never wronged  me-why  should  hçnlifèbe  blighTed  imine 
and  Lucy  W^st's  hâve  beenf   Mr.  Liston,  as  much  a^  I 

night-  her  black  eyes  flamed  up  in  thé  dusk^  «I  want 
to  be  reyenged  upon  him-I  wiU  be  revenged  ifeon-  him. 
but  not  that  way."  .  j.        ^      "H""  mm, 

"  Madam,  I  dôn't  knoW  what  you  mean  "        ^ 

êJl}-"'^  ^'^'^''  Liston-and  it  is  of  no  use  yout     ' 
W^owmg  angry-I  will  not  stab  Laurence  Tfiomdyke 
through  the  innocent  girl  who  loves  him.     I  ha«i  falleti 
veryW,but  not  q(.ite  low  enough  fop -thaï.   L  he" 

Tn^.    V  """f  "^^  "'^  afinger^spe/k  a  word  to  prj 
vent , t.    She  at  least  has  n«ver  wrongéc(  me." 

^°'^^A^^_^eLwrQnggdyiou,butdûyouthin1t 


7* 


yor 


..^! 


t  .t  '  JL^^   '  «W' 


%k 


feiL. 


r 


154 


NORINE^S  RE  VENGE. 


can  do  her  a  greater  wrong  than  by  letting  her  become  thc 
wife  of  a  heartless  scoûndrel  and  libertine  ?  I  thought 
better  of  you,  Miss  Bourdon.  Laurence  Thomdyke  is*to 
«sc!lf)e,  then,.  after,  ail  ?  " 

Her  ey^  flashed— literally  flashed.în  the  firçlight. 

"  No  !  So  surely  as  we  both  live  he  shalj  not  escape. 
r    But  not  in  that  way  shall  he  be  punished." 

"Then,  how " 

•Not  to-night,  Mr.  Liston;  some  other  time  we  will 
talk  of  this.  When  did  you  say  tifê— the  wedding  was  to 
take  place?" 

•  "The  first  week  of  December.    They  Will  spend  the 
winter  South,    ^he   is  a  Southerner  by  birth,  although  at 
présent  residçd7with  her  guardian,-Mr.  Darcy,  in  New 
York.  iP  am^  understand,  then,  you  will  not  prevent  - 
this  marriage  '  '"^  '^ 

"  I  will  not  pr^nt  it.  I  hâve  had  my  fbpl's  pâradise — so 
no  doubt  had  Lucy  West,  why  should  not  Helen  Holmes  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  then,  Miss  Bourdon."  He  spoke  in  his 
customary  cold,  monotonous  voice.  "  My  business  this 
evening  is  almost  concluded.     At  what  hour  to-morrow 

•  will  it  be  most  convenient  for  you  to  leave  ?" 

"Toleave?"  ^  - 

"  To  return  to  your  friends  in  Maine.  Such  were  Mr. 
Thomdyke's  orders.  As  you  hâve  no  itioney  of  your  own, 
I  présume  you  are  aware  you  cannot  remain  hère.  Up  to 
the  présent  I  am  prepared  to  pay  what  is  due  the  Misses 
Waddle— I  am  to  €Scort  you  in  safety  to  Portland.  After 
"that—'  the  world  is  ail  before  you  where  to  choose.'  Such 
are  my  master's  orders." 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  suppressed  passion  in  eveiy  line  ol 
fcfer  white  face,  in  every  fone  of  her  voice. 


"mv 


'M 


#" 


'•'."^^i'V 


,:  *t-  'ij    -î' 


'a-"N*^---' 


î«" 


A   DARK  COMPACT. 


^11 


us. 


«The  cowardl»  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper.  "  The 
jbase,  base,  base  coward  I  Sir,  I  will  never  go  homç  I  I 
will  go^own  to  the  sea  yonder,  and  make  an  end  of  it  alL 
but  home  "again — never  I  "  ' 

"-Ah,  I;  thought  not  !"  he  said  quietlyt  "Then,  Miss 
Bourdon,  may  I  ask  what  you  mean  to  do?  You  cannot 
stay  hère." 

"No,  I  cannot  stay  hère,"  she  said  bitterly.  "I  am 
utterly  friendiess  and  homeless  (o-night.  I  don't  know 
what  to  do."  1  ^ 

"  Let  me  tell  you.    Corne  to  liew  York  " 
"Sir!" 

"Ourhatred  of  Laurence  tboijndyke  is  a  bond  between 
.    You  shall  neyer  be  friendiess  nor  homeless  while  I 
hye.    I  am  old  enough  to  be  your  father  ;  you  may  trust 
me,  and  never  repent  jt,  that  I  swear.     See  hère  1  this  is 
whât  I  mean  to  do  for  you.     Sit  down  once  more." 
Shë  obeyed,  looking  at  him  in  wonder  and  doubt 
"Helen  Holmes  lives  wifh  Hugh  Darcy.    She  is  as 
dear  as  a  daughter  to  him,    He  is  pne  of  those  old,  world- 
wom  men  who  love  to  hâve  youth  and  beauty  about  them. 
She  reads  for  him  his  hewspaper  and  books  of  poetiy  and 
romance  ;  he  is  as  fond  of  verse  and  fiction  as  a  girl  in 
her  teens.     She  plays  the  piano  and  sings  for  him—he  has 
a  passion  for  musiC.     Now,  can  you  plky  and  siïig?  " 
"  Yes." 

"  Then  hère  is  my  plan.  He  is  soiJn  to  lose  Miss 
Holmes,  and  solne  one  like  her  in  her  place  he  must  hâve 
—that  he  told  me  himselt  A  young  girl  to  read  aloitfl 
his  pet  books,  tcrplay  in  thê^long  winter  evçnings  his  pet 
music,  to  sing  his  favorite  songs,  to  read  and  write  his  let-  » 
Jgre--to  bnghten  theLduli  ojd  houae  generaUy  by  her  ^i 


ï^ 


.'.•,A 


!.•«» 


v^^à^^  * 


156 


NORmETS  RE  VENGE. 


■<iî» 


m   a  su 


ence — to  look  pretty  and  f air  and  sWftet  always;  that  is 
what  he  wants.  Salary  is  no  object  with  him.  You  will 
hâve  a  happy  home,  )igh\t  and  pleasant  work,  plenty  of 
money.    Will  yôu  talce  it  ?\" 

"But—"  \     > 

"  You  will  suit  him  exaélly.  You  are  young  enough,  in 
ail  conscience — pretty  enough,  if  you  will  pardon  jny  say- 
ing  so,  to  brigHten»^  even  »  dùllet  house  than  that.  You 
play,  you  sing,  you  can  rea4  aloud.  What  more  do  you 
want  ?  You  need  a  home.  There  is  a  home.  And  "^-a 
long  pause — "  who  dan  tell  what  may  corne  of  it  ?  " 

She  was  looking  up,  he  was  looking  down.  Their 
eyes  met.  In  the  darkness  ihey  could  yet  look  at 
each  other  long  and  steadily  for\  a  moment.  Then  hers 
fell.  " 

"Howold  is  Mr.  Darcy  ? '*' shè  asked 
voice.  i^  \  j 

"  He  is  seventy^iglj^ld,  feeble,  ànd  easily  wdi^rked  lupon. 
I   say  again — ^who  kiwws  what  may  come  of  it  ?    To  be 
disinhented  is  the  only  thmg  in  hea 
TKomdyke  is  afraid  o^    And  old  me 
bommihdsand  strong  reseiîîments, 
such  5trange  wills." 

Again  there  was  a  pause.  Then  N<!^rine  Bourdon  spoke 
firtnJy. 

"  I  will  go  with  you  to  New  York." 

He  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"  I  thought  you  would.  You  will  èot  repent  it,  Mrs. 
Laurence.  By-the-by,  would  you  mindjleaving  that  name 
behind  you  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly.    ' 
"You  will  nccompany  me  to  New  Ybrk  as  my  niec^ 


l^dued 


n  or  earth  Laurence 
of  eighty,  with  stub- 
o  somçtinies  make 


•\ 


è- 


■  ■■■:   ..  f  -  -1    .;T  •!  <   ,    ..■   .      ■ 


■>-~^^ 


yx 


^N.. 


A  DARK  COMPACT. 


\ 


157 


Jane  Liston.  I  hâve  a  nièce  of  that  name,  i  wîdow,  out  in 
Oregon.  As  my  nièce,  Mrs.  Jane  Liston/from  the  coun- 
try,  looking  for  work  in  the  city,  I  will  intpdùce  you  to  my 
landlady,  a  most  respectable  woman.  mm  nièce,  Jana 
Liston,  I  will  présent  you  to  Mr.  Darcy/*f^W^  don't'  want 
Master  Laurence  tp  see  our  little  game.  ïf  you  went 
as  Mrs.- Laurence,  or  Miss  Kent,  ev^,  he^oiild.  He 
will  be  sure  to  hear  the  name  of  Miss  JEïlmes^succéssor.' 

"  But— you  have.foçgotten— I  may  meet  him.  That  '  V 
her  lips  quiveringW  I  could  not  bear."     ^  ^.   *•  >■ 

"  No  danger  at  ail.  You  will  not  go  there  ùntil  they  are 
off  on  their  wedding  tour..  They  do  not  return  until  May. 
In  five  months,  judiciously  made  use  of,  great.  things  may 
happen."  /   - 

She  rose  up,  with  a  long,  weary-worn  sigh. 

"I  am  in  y(5Ur  hands,  Mr.  Liston.  Friendless,  money- 
less,  helpless,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  thank  you  for  this,  but 
—I  cannot.  I  know  it  is  not  for  my  sake  you  are  doing  it, 
but  for  the  sake  of  your  revenge.  Say  what  you  like  of 
me  when  we  go  to  New  York  ;  I  am  ready  to  follow  where 
you  lead.  Just  now  I  am  tired— we  will  not  talk  any  more. 
Let  us  say  good-night." 

She  gave  him  her  hand  ;  it  was  like  ice.  He  let  it  fall 
uneasily. 

"  And  you  will  not  fail  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I  shall  not  fail  you,"  she  answered.  In  what  eithei 
said,  it  was  not  necessary.  They  understood— revenge 
iipon  Laurence  Thorndyke. 

"  To-morrow  at  twelve  I  will  call  for  you  hete  to  take 
the  train  for  New  York.     You  will  be  rèady  ?  "  ^' 

"I  will  be  ready."    The  door  closed  behind  the  small  ' 
white  figure,  and  he  was  alone.  J: 


À 


'Tr 


lis 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 


Alone,  and  he  had  not  tolçl  her  the  truth,  that  in  hi« 
opinion  the  niarriage  was  légal. 

"  Another  time,"  he  thought  ;  "  bigamy  is  an  ugly  criim. 
Let  us  wait  until  he  marries  Miss  Holmes." 


/ 


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CHAPTER  XV. 
"a  pashionable  weddino" 

NOTHER  night  had  passed,  another  day  had 
corne.     At  twelve  sharp  Mr.  Liston  and  a  hàck- 
ney  carrjage  had  corne  for  'h  Mrs.  Laurence  ' 
x.r    r  .         ^V  ^'^"''^  ^^^  been  packed  by  her  own-hands. 
Mr.  Liston  had  settled  the  claim  o£  the  Misses  Wa'ddle 
and  white  and.  still  she  had  corne  out.  shaken  hands  with 
thê  kmdly  spinsters,  entered  the  hack,  falfen  back  in  a.cor- 
ner,  herhand  shading  her  eye§,  and  so  was  driveri  away       ^ 
from  the  Chelsea  cottage  forever.  "^        •    .: 

"^And  d^.ad  and  in  her  shroud,"  saîd  the  younger  Miss 
W^addle,  melo-dramatically,  "she  will  never  lookmôre  like 
death  than  she^does  to-day." 
She  had  scaïcely  siept  the  night  through.     That  pleas        ' 

ant  cottage  chamberoverlooking  the  sea  was  haunted  for      ' 
nr'u    1 1   "'^'"^"^^  t^at  nearly  maddened  her  to-night 
With  ail  herheart  she  had  loved-with  ail  her  soûl  she  had    '         ' 
cT^  ^    .,    f  '^''^'^  ^"'^  '"^  *^  darkness,  forsaken,  deceived 
She  hardly  knew  whether  it  were  passionate  love  still  or 
passionate  hatred  that  filled  her  now.    The  Ijoundarv  line 
between  strong  love  and  strong  hâte  is  but  narrow  at 
fte    be^    A  tumult  that  was  agony    fiUed  heart  and 
brain.    He  had  never  «ared  for  her  ;  never,  never  I  Out  of 
pur^  revenge  upon  Richard  Gilbert  he  had  mocked  her 
2'Uh  the  farce  of  love-mockéd  her  from  first  to  lasL  and    ^ 
wearied  of  her  before  pne  poor  week  had  end^, 


^ 


-S^. 


SMi: 


-a 


/ 


i6o 


JVORINSrS  /iE  VENGE. 


m:. 


"  Lightly  won,  lightly  lost,"  man's  motto  always,  nevei 
more  true  than  in  hei*  case.  WithouÇ  one  pang  he  had  cas! 
her .  off  contemptuously,  glad  to  be  rid  of  her,  and  had 
sent  his  uncle's  servant  to  takè  her  back  to  the  home 
she  had  disgraced,  the  hearts  she  had  broken.  She 
clenched  her  hands — in  the  darkness  she  was  walkitig  up 
'and  down  her  room,  and  hoarse,  broken  murmurs  of  a 
woman  scomed  and  outraged  came  from  her  lips.  Shecould 
picture  him  even  at  this  hour  seated  by  the  slde  of  the  girl 
hewas  so  soon  to  marry,  his  arm  encircling  her,  his  eyes 
looking  love  into  hçrs,  his  lips  murmuring  the  old  false 
vows,  sealing  them  with  the  old  false  caresses.  Face  down- 
ward  she  flung  herself  upon  the  bed  at  last,  wild  wîth  the, 
remorse,  the  despair  of  her  own  thoughts. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried  ;  "  I  cannot  bear  it  !  I  cannot,  I  cannot."' 

The  darkness  wrapped  her,  the  deep  silence  of  the^ 
night  was  around  her.  Up  stairs  the  Missçs  Waddle  slept 
their  vestal  beauty  sleep,  commonplaceriâ^  çontéht  A 
month  ago  she  had  pitied  their  dull,,;^  |b:^éle^  plodding 
lives.  \  Ah,  Heaven  !  to  be  free  fromVl|àià.^^ç^t|iring  pain 
at  her  |ieart,  ^nd  able  to  sleep  like  theiii  Jp^*'  But  even 
to  her  jsleep  came  at  last,  the  spent  slee{^^f  iS^(^  Éxhaus- 
tion.  ^^''::ï 

The  jmoming  sun  was  shining  brightly  when  she  awoke. 
She  goi  up  feeling  chilled  and  stiff,  wom  and  grown  old. 
Hechanically  she  bathed  and  breakfasted — Miss  Wàddle 
the  younger  gazing  askance  at  her  white  cheeks  andlustr«- 
less  eyesl  Mechanically  she  retumed  to  her  room,  and 
began  pajcking  her  trunks.  And  thèn,  this  done/she  sat 
with  folc^ed  hands  by  the  window,  looking  out  upon  the 
sparkling^;  sea,  until  noon  and  Mr.  Liston  should  côme 
Her  min4  was  a  blank  ;  the  very  intensity  of  the  blow  be 


:;ic=r 


*>... 


,./... 


p 


.■■.*«<■ 


«-4  FASHIONABLÇ  WEDDING.  ^ 

numbed  pain.  Last  night  she  had  lain  yon^er,  and  wrif hed 
Jn  her  torture  ;  to-day  she  felt  almost  apathetio— indiffèr- 
ent to  past,  présent,  and  future.  And  so,  pale  and  cold, 
and  still,  Mr.  Liston  had  fonnd  her,  so  she  had  shaken 
hands,  and  said  good-by  to  the  Misses  Waddle,  and  so  she 
\i\A  been  driven  aw|^îçn  her  "honeymoon  pSradise»  to 
begin  her  life  andp^fc^ 

They  '■eachèdSfe^m.  If  Mr.  Liston  had  indeed 
been  the  fondestlM^piecouldnot  hâve  been  tnore 
afifectionately  soHciiW^r  the  welfare  and  comfort  of  hil 
charge.  She  was  indi|èrent  to  it.  ail— unconscious  of  it  in- 
deed, looking-upon  ail  things  with  dull,  half-sightless  eyes. 
"  Take  good  care  of  her,  l\îrs.  Wilkins,"  he  said  to  his 
îandlady  ;  «  she  is  ailing,  as  you  can  see,  and  don'tlet  her 
be  disturbed  or  annoyed  in  my  abstîoçe.  She  bas  had 
trouble  lately,  and  is  not  like  herself."  /    - 

It  vç^ashabby-genteel  bbarding-house,  in  i  shabby-gen- 
teel  st3:â^,  cl<^se  lïpon  East  Broi^dway.  At' first  "Mrs. 
Liston*'  âad  her  meals  served  in  her  room,  and  spent  her 
urne,  for  ail  Mrs.  ^^kins  could  see,  in  sitting  at  the 
window,  with  idly-lying  hands,  gazing  out  into  the  duU 
Street.  Mr.  Liston  was  absent  the  (^^art  of  the  day 
and  Mrs.  Liston  steadfajly  kept  hSWom  ;  but  in  thé 
evenmgs,  always  closely  veiled,  Mrs.  Wilkins  observed  he 
could  pre^ail  upon  her  to^'go  out  with  him  for  a  walk.  He 
was  kind  tè)her,  the  girl  vaguely  felt— she  would  obey  him, 
at  least  ;  and,  slnce  she  could  not  die  and  make  an  end  of 
it  ail,  why,  she  might  aswell  take  a  little  exercise  for  her 
health's  sake.  He  was  very  good  to  her,  but  she  felt  no 
gratitude— it  was  not  for  her  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  the 
grudge  he  owed  their  mutual  foe.  Theirmutual  foe  I  Did 
she   hâte  Laurence  Thorndyke,  she  wondered.    Thei» 


ij^".^»^      ^SîL.^ 


\    c< 


,[?■■  / 


&^i 


162 


ïr 


u- 


N0RINE>S  RÉ  VENGE. 


hand,  and  the  Sound  ofhis  name  from  Mr    List^'«  1 
had  Power  to  thriH  her  to  the  in.ost  hlrf  sdlL    ''^  ^  '^' 
.  Gradually,  as  the  weeks  passed,  matters  changed. 

"  Time,  that  bluntB  the  edge  ofthings. 
DriMourtearsandspoUaourblisB."       - 

pumic  table,  and  the  pale,  spirituelle  beauty  of  the  invisi- 

noa  among  the  boarders.    Next,  she  took  to  soendin,» 
the   o„g  aftemoons  in  the  dingy  boardi„g-ho°  se  pârio" 

stCT  t  ^'"^""^'  '™^'^-  boardin'gCs?;!"^ 
such  mélodies  of  mournful  sw.eetness  that  Mrs.  Wilklns  and 

li  L  at^^'T  "'  î'  ""'"'"  P-sedintheirwoTto 
iisten,  and  wonder,  and  admire. 

.vI^Y,^"""^  ''°'"'"  ''^  ^«'n  trouble,"  Mrs.  Wilfcins 
^^,  shabng  her  head.  She  had  her  iwn  opinTôn-a 
pretty  correct  o„e-of  «hat  nature  that  trouble  was  but 
her  beauty  and  her  youth  ^ere  there  to  plead  f^r'her 
She  was  a  lady  to  her  finger-tips,  that  was  évident  and- 
mostpotentre^onofalU^th  Mrs.  Wilkins-Mr.'Lrst^ 

1o''De"embe'r:;t.^''  '^""''  '"  "^^  f'^'  -^'^• 
How  the  time  had  gone  Nonne  could  hardly  hâve  told- 
do  fo,^°wrf  "'  """'  ""^ ^"-  '^^O'"'''-  '*">°««.  despair, 
eaund  sleep,  play  the  old  tunes,  even  somejimes  sing  the 
oWfcon^.  She  looked  at  herself  in  a  sort  of  drean,  „on! 
der  m  the  ghss.  The  face  she  saw  a  litUe  palerAan  ôf 
ol^was  fau-  and  youthful  stiU-th^  bright  haïr  glossy  «,d 


TT 


« 


^ 


f 


.sirfki 


•»■         l-CIfCÇ^TPIl^^      "     ,    «,*■ 


*       'tX 


■,S  *' 


*'A  FASHIONABLE  WEDDINC 


163 


ibundant  as  ever.  She  had  read  of  beople  whose  haif 
tumed  gray  with  troublé;  hers  had  iassed  ar^d  left  no 
sign,  only  on  the  lips  that  had  fôrgôtterl  to  smilé,  the  eyea 
that  never  lit  into  gladness  or  hope,  andî  |pie  heart  that  lay 
like  lead  in  her  i)osom.  *'     -  i 

The  crisp,  frosty  December  days  seeihed  to  fly,  bring- 
ing  with  them  his  wedding-day.  Eyeri  hour  now,  the 
old  agony  of  that  night  in  the  Chelsea  cottage  camé  back 
to  stab  her  through.  The  seventh  of  Diember  was  the 
dayr— could  she  bear  it  ? — and  it  was  in  hertoower  even  yet, 
Mr.  Xiston  told  her,  to  prevent  it.  Twice  during  the  last 
fortnight  she  had  seen  him,  the  first  timél  when,  closely 
'veiled,  her  dress  had  brushed  him  on  BroadWay.  He  was 
advancmg  with  another  gentleman,  both  were  bmokrng,  both 
were  laughing  gayly  at  some  good  story  Thoridyke  seemed 
to  be  t|jj|hg.  Handsome,  élégant,  well-dressedL  ndnchalanC, 
he  passed  her,  actually  turning  to  glance  after  \the  grace/ul 
^figure  and  veiled  face. 

"  That  figure  should  belong  to  a  pretty  giill,"  she  had 
heard  him  say.  "  Deuce  take  the  veils,  what  db  they  wear 
'em  for.  There — there's  something  oddly  faiiiliar  about 
her,  too." 

She  had  tumed  sick  and  faint,  she  leaned  agatnst  a  store 
window  for  a  moment,  the  busy  street  going  iound  and 
round.     So  they  had  met  and  parted  again. 

The  second  time  it  was  almost  worse.  Mr.,  Liston  had 
taken  her  to  the  opéra— ^n  her  paçsionate  love  o]  music  she 
could  forget,  for  a  few  brief  hours,  her  pain,  wh(  n,  coming 
out,  in  the  crush,  they  had  corne  almost  face  to  lace.  His 
bride  elect  was  on  his  arm,  by  instinct  she  kne\|  it,  a  tall, 
stylish  girl;in  sweeping  draperies,  with  blonde  ibair,  blue' 
eyes,  and  ajjkin  liW  pearl.    He  was  bendinà  hia  laH- 


'■il 


'}    .    '    \ 


^,/. 


.-  -£0 


i.     ■ 


4»    -     ■    ■ 


i64 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 


s^ 


ti< 


head  over  her,  devotedly;  hoth  looked  brilliantly  hand«' 
sorae  and  happy. 

^'For  Heaven's  sake,  corne  this  way!"  Liston  had 
çried,  and  drawn  her  with  him  hurriedly  in  another  direc- 
,  tien,  She  had  been  literally  unable  to  move,  standing, 
white  and  wild,  gazing  upon  him.  Presently  came  the 
fateful  wedding  day.  Ail  the  night  preceding  shè  lay 
awake,  the  old  tempest  of  feeling  going  on  within  hçr. 

Should  she  denounce  him,  or  should  she  not,  on  his 
wedding-day  ?  Should  she  take  his  bride  from  him  at  the 
very  altar,  and  proclaim  him  to  the  world  as  the  liar  and 
betrayer  he  was,  or  should  she  wait  ?  She  could  not 
décide.,  When  morning  came  her  mind  was  in  as  utter  a 
tumult  as  Qver. 

"  Hâve  you  decided  ?  "  Mr.  Liston  asked  her.  «  Shall 
Laurence  Thorndyke  leave  his  uncle's  house  to-day, 
with  his  bride  by  his  side,  or  as  an  outcast  and  a  pauper, 
scomed  by  ail  ?  It  is  for  you  to  siy." 
•  "  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  hoarsely.  "  Take  me  to 
the  church — I  will  décide  there." 

He  had  taken  her,  led  her  in,  placed  her  in  one  of  the 
pews,  and  left  her.  His  manifold  duties  kept  him  with 
Mt.  Darcy  ;  he  would  be  unable  to  join  Nonne  again  that 
day. 

The  church  filled  ;  an  hour  before  the  ceremony  it  was 
crowdtd.  Then  they  came  ;  the  bridegroom  a  trifle  pale 
and  nervous,  as  bridegrooms  are  wont  to  be,  but,  as 
usual,  handsome  of  face  and  élégant  of  attire.  Then  on 
her  gwardian's  arm,  the  bride,  a  dazzling  vision  of  white 
satm,  Honiton  lace,pearl,  orange  blossoms,  goldhair,  and 
tei^der  drooping  face.  A  breathless  hush  fills  the  church 
—m  that  hush  the  officiating  clergyman  came  forth— in 


^' 


^sr 


«^  FASAlONABLE  WEDDING." 


165 


that  hush  the  bridai  party  take  their  places,  a  flock  of 
wliite  bridesmaids,  a  group  of  tiack  geigjemen.  And 
th^n  a  voice  out  of  that  great  stillness  speaïs.  y   ^ 

"  If  any  heregcnow  of  just  cause  or  impedimer.t  Why 
Uiese  two  should  not  be  joined  in  the  bonds  of  matrimo\y, 
Jet  him  speak  now^^  or  forever  hold  his  peace." 

Mr.  Liston  turns  his  qtïiet  face  and  watchful  eyes 
to  one  particular  pew,  to  one  sle©der  figure  and  veiled 
face.  The  five  seconds  that  follow  are  as  five  centuries 
to  the  bridegroom.  His  face  is  quite  white,  his  gloved 
fingers  are  likfeitfe.  lie  glanbes  up  at  Liston,  and  then— 
the  ceremony  begins.  What  a  horrible  tiine  il  takes, 
Laurence  Thornfjyke  thinks;  what  a  horrible  ordeal  a 
fashionable  public  m^^iage  is.  Does  a  dingy  hôtel  par- 
ler rise  before  him,  the  rain  beating  on  the  Windows,  and 
a  pale,  wistful  face  look  up  at  him,  while  a  mockery  of  this 
solemn  rite  is  being  ga'bbled  through  hy  a  tipsy  actor  ?  Is 
it  the  fair,  happy,  downcast  face  of  his  bride  he  sees  or 
that  other  face  a.<î  he  saw  it  last,  ail  white  and  drawn  in 
the  anguish  of  a  last  farewell  ? 
"  What  God  hath  joined  t»gether  let  no  man  put  asunder  !" 
It  is  over.  Ke  draws  a  long^  hzxé.  breath  of  relief. 
Corne  what  may,  Hëlen  is  his  wÉfe. 

They  rise  ;  they  file  slowly  and  gracefuUy  out  of  the 
church;  the  bride  hanging  on  t]^  bridegroom's  arm. 
Closely,  very  closely,  they  pass  one  particular  pew  wherein 
a  solitary  figure  stands.  She  has  risen  with  the  rest  ;  she 
has  flung  back  her  veil,  and  peoi^e  who  glanée  at  her 
stop  involuntarily  and  look  again.  The  face  is  like  stone, 
the  daik  eyes  ail  wild  and  wide,  the  lips  apart  ;  she  stands 
as  if  slowly  petrifying.     But  the  bridai  party  do  not  scr 


«g 


IICI    ] 

UlC^ 

f  J'ai 

iSC 

>n,  anc 

1  CUL 

J3»   ■■'  ' 

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i^y 

i^ 

lËt 

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^v 


f* 


^ 


/ 


i66 


NORINEPS  RE  VENGE. 


"  Who  is  she  ?  "  strangers  whisper.  "  Has  she  known 
Ivaurénce  Thorndyke ?" 

Then  they  too,  go,  and  ail  is  over. 

The  wedding  party  enter  their  carriages  and  are  whirled 
away.  Mr  Liston  sees  his  employer  safely  oflf,  then  returns 
hurriedly  to  thè  church.  He  is  angry  with  Nbrine,  but  it 
is  his  duty  to  lobk  after  her,  and  something  in  her  face  to- 
day  has  made  him  afraid.  There  is  nothing  to  fear,  how- 
tiver  ;  she  is  very  quiet  now  ;  she  sunk  down  upon  her 
knees,  her  head  ha^  fallen  forward  upon  the  rail.  He 
speaks  toTier  ;  she  does  not  answer.  He  touches  her  on 
the  shoulder  ;  she  do§s  not  look  up.  He<  lifts  her  head — 
— yes,  it  is  as  he  feared.  The  édifice  i»  a^nîost  deserted 
now  ;  he  takes  her  in  his  qjms  and  carries  her  out  into 
the  air.  For  the  second  time  in  her  life  she  has  fainted 
entirely  away. 


V.. 


!«■ 


.V 


U4 


CHAPTER  XVI.       • 

"HIS   NAME    IS    LAURENCE   THORNB^E."  * 

GRAY  Mârch  afternoon  is  blusteringitself  oui 
in  the  streets  of  New  York— a  slatecolored  sky, 
fast  drifting  with  black,  rainy  qlouds  ;  the  wind 
sobs  and  shivers  in  great  dusty  soughs,  and 
pedestrians  bow  involuntarily  before  it,  and  speed  along 
with  winking  and  watery  eyes.  / 

In  à  quiet,  old-fashioned  street— for  tïiere  are  quiet,  old- 
îashioned  streets  even  in  New  York— there  stands  a  big, 
square,  dingy,  red  brick  house,  set  in  a  square  of  grass- 
grown  front  garden,  a  square  of  brick  paving  in  the  rear. 
Two  slim  poplars— "old  maids  of  the  forest,"  lift  their 
tall,  prim  green  heads  on  eithei;  side  <f  the  heavy  hall 
dçor.     The  house  looks  comfortable,  but  gloomy,  and  ^^ 

that  is  precisely  .what  it  is,  this  dun-colored  spring  day, 
confortable,  but  gloomy.  There  are  heavy  curtains  of 
dark,  rich  damask  draping  the  Windows,  ^frough  the 
cléar  panes  of^^qru^  of  the  upper  Windows  yScatch  the 
flicker  and\falllf  a  red  coal  fire,  and  the  sombre  beaùty 
of  a  girl's  face.  ,„.  '  ï    *        <    .    ' 

She  stands  in  the  lar^^andsome  room,  ^ne,  §  lohg^' 
low  room,  with  a jparpelW^^rich,  dull  crijMon  velvet,  cur- 
taiiïs  of  dull  crimson  satin  damask,  ^^red  walls,  dull 
crimson,  too.  There  are  oil  ;painting8  in  gilded  f rames, 
pondérons  mahogaay  chairs,  tables  and  footstoolsi.bul 
there  is  nothing  bright  in  the  apartment  save  the  che^rful 


-ïeJ  fiic.    itis  ail  dark  and  oppTessivéi:;;^ôFëvè~nëxdfepF 


Q 


NORINE'S  REVE. 

»ng  pp  girffl  The  pale  face  th^lpoks 
,  f^t  drifting|ky,  at  ^  flst-fa^ig  li 
soVr  «^  altàhe  rest.   i^hd  yâtfeit 
beautiful  facf  vl^^face  P^^ix  hK^tfitks 


bloohiéd  with"*:' 


|jcauiuuj  iacr,-»^iace  fH^.gix  môïïWs  a^o  bloohiéd  with"* 
»  childisa  bi^ness  ^^blppm,  the3:|ipe  oriNArtiÀ 
Bourdon.  1  «•■■"  .\  ■     -      '  "'  A.    1|  .,^^^-#j'  ^'     '  „  ^"^M^  ^ 


José  '  upo#  four  iMth|>  iÉpfi'  ts^ft?! 
comp^nlon,  secrçtaiy/§mf|iœn3||,to 
f  Now  sîi^  '  stands  hère  '  'debàtiilg^ith  iii  herself 
lllai^  g^  to  him  to-night  and  tell  him  she  must 
^  Sferinks  from  the  t,agfe  ,  She  has"  grotvn 
lld  and  wise  in.  thèse  four  months  j  she  knows 
.  ,,.  .  t^^  t^e  world— somethinfijiff  what  it  must  be 
;J|e  tobeadrift  in  New  Yofk,  frie^igess  and  penniless 
i^th  only  eighteen  years  and  a  fair  fa|e  for  one's  danger- 
dûs  dower.  Friéndless  she  will  be;'|Qr  in  leaving  she 
will  deeply  îrritate  Mr.  Darcy,  deeplyî^nger  Mr;  Liston, 
and  in  ail  the  world,  it  seems  to  Norine,  there  are  only 
those  two  çhc  ca^  çall  friends.  '  ^  '(  .; 

And  yet-^friends  !  Can  she  call  eveh  them  by^that 
name  ?  Mr.  Liston  is  her  friend  and  protector  so  long  as 
he  thinks  she  ^ill  aid  him  in  his  vengeance  upon  his  en- 
emy.  Mr.  Darcy— well,  how  long  will  Mr.  Darcy  be  her 
friend  when'  he  discovers  how  she  has  imçosed  ûpon  him  ? 
That  under  a  false  name  and  history  she  has  sought  the 
shelter  of  his  roof— she,  the  cast-off  of  his  nephew  ?  He 
likes  heî- well— that  she  knows  ;  he  trusts  her,  respects  her 
—how  much  liking  or  respect  will  remain  when  he  knows 
her  a6  she  is  ?  ^, 

«And  know  he  shaU,"  she  says,  inj||bv,.her  lîps  com- 
pressed..  "I  cannôt  carrjr  on  this  dèwBMn  longer  For 
the  restai  would  hâve  to  léave  hi  àiJ^Ê-.fA,y  return  in 


/ 


/' 


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^;-^^.vY,/^^  .   :;-%,,.„ 


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<*  Z^  URENck  THORND  YKE: 


169 


May,  and  I  cannjjj||^cannot  meet  them.  Mr.  Liston  mày 
say  Mhat  he  pleases,  it  were  easier  to  diç  than  to  stay  on 
and  ïneet  him  again— liké  that." 

Sh(;  has  not  forgotten.     Such  fir&t,  passionate  love  03 

she  gave  Laurence  Tliomdyke  is  not  to.be  out-lived  and 

tifampled  out  in  four  mjnths;  and  yet  it  is  much  more 

abhorrençe  than  love  that  fills  her  heart  with  bitterness 

^,    now. 

"The  dastard!"  she  thinks,  her  black  èyes  gleaming 
dangerously  ;  "  the  coward  !  How  dare  hexio  it  !  Ôneday 
or  other  he  §hall  pay  for  it,  that  I  swear  ;  but'l  cahnot  meet 
him  now.  ,There  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  artd  tell  Mr. 
Darcy  I  must  leave,  and  take  my  chance  in  the  world.' 
quite  alone."  , 

She  leaned  her  forehead  ^alnst  th7  cold,  clear  glass 
wuha  heavy  heart-sick  sigh.     The  first  keen  poignancy 
of  her  pam  was  over,  but*tf^  dull,  deadly  sickening  ache    " 
was  there  still,  and  A^ould  be  for  many  a  day.     Hâte  him 
she  might,  tong  for  retaliation  she  did,  but  not  once  could 
she  thmk  of  him  the  happy  husband  ôf  Helen  Holmes 
without  the  very  heart  within  her  growing  faint  with  dead- 
ly jealoug.The^  Sound  of  his  name,  the  sight  of  his 
letter^,  Ma  power    to  move  her  to  this  day.     I^  the 
drawing-room  below  a  carefully-painted  portrait  of  the 
handsome  face,   the  bright  blue  eyes,  the  fair,  waving 
haïr,  hung— a  portrait  so  true,  that  it  was  torture  only  to 
look  at  it,  and  yet  how  many  hours  had  she  not  stood 

^làï^iÉft^  1  bittemess-until  burning  tears 
^tr^iffil  bl^aid  %dark  impassioned  eyes. 
'  '  *  ^ow  he  and  4âs  tîdè  were  coming  home  to  this  house, 
and  she^was  expeoted  to  stay  hère  and  meet  them     Ex- 
pected  by  Mr.  Darç/,  wfaoJad  le^mfed  to  love  her  idmnHt 

/ ■  ,  •  >  '    ;      ^     '*  "      .:   '    1         * 

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I70  NORINEPS  REVENGE. 

as  a  daughter  ;  expected  b}  Mr.  Listén,  who  had  told  her 
she  must  confront  Laurjence  Thomdylce  in  this  very  hoùse, 
and  show  him  to  uncle  and  wif e  as  he/really  was — a  coward, 
a  liar,  a  seducer.  / 

='  1    "I  cannot  do  it  !  "  she  said,  her  hands  clenching  togeth- 
4r.     "  I  cannot  meet  him.    Mon  Dieu,  no  !  not  yet — not 

yet."    „        '  /  . 

»  She  had  been  introfluced  into  the  house  just  two  weeks 
after  the  marriage  as  "  my  nièce  from  the  country — ^Jane 
Liston."  As  Jane  Liston  she  had  remained  hère  ever 
since,  winning  "golden  opinions  ", from  ail  the  Household. 
She  had  Wnd  Mr.  Darcy  a  décrépit,  irritable  pld  invalid, 
bored  nearly"  tç  death  sihce  his  ward's  Wedding — lonely, 
peevish,  sick.  He  hàd  lookèd  once  into  the  pale,  lovely 
face,  and  never  needed  to  look  again  to  like  her.  Trouble 
and  tears  had  not  marred  her  beauty.  A  little  of  the 
bloom — there  never  had  been  Auch — ail  of  the  sparkle, 
the  gay  brilliance  that  had  charmed  Richard  Gilbert  weife 
gone  j  but  the  eighteen-'year-old  face  was  very  sweet,  very 
lovely,  the  dark  Canadien  eyes,  with  their  unutterable 
sadness  and  pathos,  wondçrfully  captiv^ting  ;  and  old 
Hvgh  Darcy,  with  a  passion  for  îdl  things^air  and  young, 
had  become  her  captive  at  once. 

*'Y6u  suit  rtie  fifty  times  better  than  Helen,"  he  s^id 
often,  draying  the  dark  loops  of  shining  hair  fondly  through 
his  old  fîngers.  "  Helen  was  a  rattle  pâte.  Never  min 
— m'atrimony-  will  tame  her  down,  though  the  lad's  fond  of 
her  enough,  and  will  make  her  a  very  good  sort  of  husband, 
I  dare  say,  as  husbands  go.  But  you,  little  woman,  with 
your  soft  voice — ^you  hâve  a  voice  like  an  -^olian  harp, 
Jennie,  your  deft  fingers,  your  apt  ways— y^u  are  a  treas- 
ure  to  a  cross  old  bachelor.    You  are  a  nurse  bon\,  Jen- 


■#' 


*, 


'  '  t' 


** LAURENCE  THORNDYKE.''    i 


171 

nie,  child  ;  how  did  I  ever  get  along  ail  thes^ears  witli- 
outyou?" 

He  meant  it,  every  word,  .and  a  moônlight  sort  of  smile, 
sweet  and  grateful,  if  very  sad,  thanked  hiiri.  Once  she 
had  lifted  his  hand  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it,  passionate 
tears  fiUing  her  eyes, 

"1  a  treasure  !    Oh,  Mr.  Darcy  J    You  do  not  know 
what;  you  say.     I  am  a  wretch — a  wretch  unworthy  of  your, 
kindness  and  trust.     But  one  day  I  shall  tell  you  ail." 

He  had  wondered  a  little  what  she  meant.  "  Tell  him 
ail!"  What  could  tlie  child  hâve  totell?  She  was  so 
young— so  pathetically  young  to  be  widowed— what  stoiy 
lay  in  her  life?  The  very  olc^est  of  ail  old  stories,  no 
doubt— a  beloved  one  lost.  He  sighed  as  he  thought 
it,  bald-headed,  hoary  patriarch  that  he  was.  H^z.^ 
had  his  story  and  his  day.  Jhe  day  had  ende^the 
story  was  read,  the  book  closed  and  put  away,  years 
years  and  years  ago.  In  the  gallant  and  g£)lden  days  _^ 
his  youth  he  had  met  and  loved  a  girl,  and  been  (as  he 
believed,  as  she  told  him,)  loved  in  return.  He  "left  her 
to  make  a  home  and  a  compétence — he  was  no  millionaire 
in  those  far-ofî  days,  save  in  happiness — to  return  in  a 
year  and  marry  her.  Eight  months  after  there  came  to 
him  his  letters,  his  picture,  his  ring.  A  richer  knight  had 
entered  the  lists,  and  the  lady  was  borne  off  no  un^willing 
captive.     A  commonplace,  every-day  story — nothMQÉ^jÉfe. 

^  He  took  his  punishment  like  a  man,  in  brave  sHence^ 
and  the  world  went  on,  and  years  and  riches  and  honora^^^f  , 
came,  and  a  man's  life  was  spoiled  forever,  that  was  ail.    As  -'^   \ 
he  recalls  it,  old^white  haired,  half ,  paralyzed,  now  jn  tho       i    - 
t^aJMtht  of  seventy  odd  years,  he  can  remember  with  curiouy  °     j 


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^ORINEr^  RE  VENGE. 


é^^, 


^^„.  Tigmiy  the  July  sun  shone  doWn  on  tht  hot 

pavement  of  the  streçts  belonr,  the  cries  o£  the  chil 
n  at  play,  the  quivering  glare  of  the  bla^ing  noontide, 
as  he satin  his office  and  read  the  words  that  renounced 
hiim  .  Twenty-sevea^M|Mto,  but  the  picture  was  engra- 
ven.  On  Hugh  Blf^TÇrSi^  n^r  é  be  blotted  out. 
Twenty-seven  years  agp,  and'when  the  fortunate  rival  had 
.fallen  m  the  battle  of  life,  ten  years  later  ;  when  his  feeble- 
souled  wife  had  followed  him  to  the  grave,  ifugh  Darcy's 
revenge  upon  her  had  been  to  step  forward  and  take  the 
child  of  that  marriage  to  his  heart  and  home  to  rear  him 
as  his  own  son,  to  make  his  will  in  his  favor,  leaving  him' 
sole  heir  to  a  noble  inheritance. 
Laurence  Thorndyke  had  sown  his  wild  oats.^  wll 
>jmost  young  men  go  iijffor  that  kind  of  agriculture,  and  the 
seed  sown  had  not  yet  begun  to  crop  up.     H#as  happily . 
marned,  and  done  for,  and  for  hihiself  Mr.  Darcy  meant 
;*P  keep  his  little  "  Jennie  "  with  him  always,  to  travel  about  ' 
wit^fher  this  coming  summer,'>and  leave  her  a  handsome 
portion  at  Jîis  death.     "  For  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Darcy 
"she  will  forget %  husband  shehas  lost,  and  nÉke  somé 
good  man  haf^^  a«|er  I  am  g(S&Lç." 

ou^i^^  ^^^^  her  little  romapice  quiteto  suit  himself. 
She  H||crepFwith  hel^  quiet,  gentle,  womanly  ways  iAto 
his  inmost  heart— a  very  kii>dly  hfe^rt  in  spite  of  |ife's 
r*^  ^"^if  '>  ^^'^  kiadly,  yet  ^  a  stubbom  sensé  of 
justice,'^^^  of  right  ait  wron^  Sderlyfng  alL  Kindlv 
yet  terribly,  obstinatèly,  u^^|ivinr  to  ëÇtJ.  Hke  im: 
morality,  dec€fi)lion^r  JHonlr.  *^ 

"  I  love  the  chjSfcmo^tettef  than  Helèn,»  The  thouglit 
sometim^s  «I  a«w#tto  lose  her,  and  yet  I  should 
like  to  see  "her  safi^  sheltered  under  a  husband's  wing  he- 


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^/^'  É  . 


"LAURENCE  THORNDYKE.' 

fore  I  go.    TTiere's  Richard  Gilbert  now.    Fveoftenmean. 
.0  mtroduce  h,m  ,o  her,  but  somehow  slie  alway    sZ  où 
of  die  room  and  tl,e  house  wl,en  he  sends  up  h^    card     Î 
wonder  rf  he's  got  over  the  loss  o£  d,at  gW  lïï  tnll 
Some  «en  do  get  over  that  sort  of  ,l,i„g  they2.     Iho^' 
Laurence  had  nolhing  to  do  witl,  i,.    Gilbert  suspect 
h,m  I  know,  bu.  ,^en_.give  a  dog  a  bad  nan,e  and  hang 
f     n-  ,  ?,u^  '■"'«  Jennie  wouldn't  make  half  a  bad  wife 
forD-ck  Gdbert.    I^  i„tr„duce  Ivin.  the  very  ne ' ^^X  ' 

..me.  and  his  companion-where"  is  /he     "fletok  "im 

f^^^ro^ta^i-tr---- 

answe™'*'"-  ^'"°"  *"''■"  "«  ^^  '»  *»  servant  ^h„ 

,^hisgraytwiligI,thourishauntedforhim,  with  melan 
■fclyfttfng  faces,  dead  and  gone.    He  wll  hâve  mT 

?"  «>  sweetly,  thinks  the  wom  old  man   as  h.»  l,f.i. 
companioji.  "  m™,  ^his  Iittle 

The  door  opens  and  she  enters.  Ifer  treadfjJL,,..!. 
her  gannents,  are  always  soft  and  noiseleT^R  ' 
guJmgforward  in  the  gl„an,ing,  no.  u'fetghTh  S' 

^^^^  .gger  r  b.^ir.^r'  îns^ 


::^v&  n  ^"^w   .,i„i  « 


-Wî^ 


174 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 


"  Child,"  he  says,  "  liow  pale  y  ou  are.  Corne  over  hère 
and  let  me  look  at  you.  You  are  more  like  a  spirit  of  the 
twilight  than  a  young  lady  of  the  period." 

He  draws  her  affectionately  to  him,  ànd  she  sinks  on 
her  knees  by  his  chair.  There  is  no  light  but  the  dull 
glow  of  the  fire  ;  he  tilts  up  her  chin,  and  gazes  smilingly 
down  into  the  lovely  sombre  eyes. 

"  ''  Oh,  fair,  pale  Margaret,'  "  he  quotes.  "  Little  one, 
what  is  it  ?  You  promised  to  tell  faè  sometime.  Why  not 
to-night?"  - — — " 

"  Why  not  to-night?"  she  repeats.  "To-night  be  it,  then. 
But  first,  is  that  a  letter  on  the  table  ?  " 

"  Oh,  by-the-by,  yes — I  nearly  forgot  ail  about  it.  An- 
other  letter  from  our  mated  turtle  doves  in  Florida.  I  see 
by  the  post-mark  they  are  in  Florida  now.  I  hâve  kept  it 
for  you  to  read,  as  usual." 

She  takes  it  quite  calmly  ;  she  knows  that  big,  bold 
chirography  well,  and  the  day  cornes  back  to  her  when 
Mr.  Liston.brought  to  the  Chelsea  cottage  the  brief,  pitiless 
note  in  the  same  hand — Her  death  warrant.  She  seats  her- 
self  on  a  hassock  near  the  big  invalid  chair,  and  by  thé 
light  of  the  fire  reads  Laurence  Thorndyke's  letter. 

It  is  the  gay  lett€|-  of  a  happy  bridegroom  whose  bride, 
bends  over  his  shoulàer  smiling  while  he  writes.  He  tells 
of  their  travels,  of  how  well  and  handsome  Helen  is  look- 
ing  ;  that  in  another  month  for  certain  they  will  be  at 
home.  And  with  best  love  aud  ail  the  kisses  he  can 
spare  from  Nella,  he  is,  as  ever,  his  aflfectionate  nephew, 
Laurence  Thorndyke. 

She  finished  the  letter  and  laid  it  down. 

"Coming  home,"  Mr.  Darcy  repeats.     "Well,  I  am  al- 
jKay&gladJxMee  the  bpytalways  fond  of  KelJa^  And  we= 


\ 


\ 


t;- 


11 


«  LA  URENCE  THORND  YKE:^ 


17$ 


willallgo  to.  Europe  together  in  May— you  to  take  care 
of  the  old  man,  my  dear,  and  help  him  laugh  at  the  turtle 
doves  billing  and  cooing.  And  in  sunny  France,  in  fair 
Italy,  we  wili  see  if  we  cannot  bring  back  roses  to  thèse 
white  cheeks."  ^ 

The  dark  eyes  lift,  the  grave  young  voicAspeaks. 

"Thank  you,"  she  says.  "You  are  always  kind,  Mr. 
Darcy,  but  I  cannot  go." 

"•Jennie  !     Cannot  go  ?  " 

."I  cannot  go  Mr.  Dafcy.  I  am  sorry  to  leave  you; 
more  sony.than  I  can  say,  but  you  must  get  another  at- 
tendant an'9  companion.     I  am  going  away." 

"Mrs.  Liston?" 

"  I  am  not  Mrs.  Liston— my  name  is  not  Jennie— I  am 
not  Mr.  Liston's  nièce.  From  first  to  last  I  hâve  deceived 
you.  I  hâve  come  to  tell  you  the  truth  to-night,  although 
it  breaks  my  heart  to  see  yo^  angry.  I  will  tell  you  the 
truth,  and  then  you  will  see  that  I  must  go.  My  name  is 
not  Jane  Liston.     It  is  Norine  Bourdon." 

There  is  a  pause.  He  sits  looking  at  her,  astonishment, 
anger,  perplexity,  doubt  ail  in  his  face,  and  yet  he  seea 
that  she  is  telling  the  truth.  And  Norine  Bourdon— where 
hashe  heard  that  name  before?  Norine  Bourdoivl  A 
foreign-sounding  and  uncommon  name,  too.  Whére  bas  he 
heard  it  ? 

"I  do  not  wish  you  tÔ  blâme  Mr.  Liston  too  much,"*^e 
quiet  voice  goes  oiw  «  He  is  to  blâme,  for  .^e  sug^fêd, 
the  fraud,  butTO|s^ady  enough  to  close  w|th  it.  I  had 
not  a  friend  nô|,a^me  in  the  world  that  I  iâred  tum  to, 
and  I  could  not  face" Kfe  alone.  So  I  came  hère  under  a 
false  name,  false  in  everything,  ahdirokeyôur  bread,  and 
took  your  money.  and  deceived  you.     T  am  nf>t  what^ 


./ 


'       ?^^       r-'    ^  ,.  ^ORINE'S  REVENÇE. 

think  me;  I  an,  a  girlwho  has  been  lui^d  ftomherhom,^ 
.  dece,ved  and  cas,  off.     A  ,^ked  wretch  who  fledt"™ 

lo  marry  him,  and  who.ran  awav  ftnm  h;«,      vu 

-heard  rom^Richard  Gilbert  o£  Norine  Boul";-  " 
A  faint  excljmation  cornes  from  hJs  lips 

-      «I  wm  ,  ,!*"""""'''"  "'«"'IdFrencbnamewellnow 
I  «-Il  tell  you  my  story,  Mr.  Dar)?ir_„,„  „i^^^  "°"l' 

shamefui  sto,y,  and  you  shall  turn  me  outlis'X^ «fl! 

ion?  f°^l  /  ^"'  "-^  ^'  y°"  «»d.  RicharT^ilbe rt 
honored  mth  his  respect  and  love;  whom 'he Iked    t 

marnjge.  I  Wed  another  *a„,  a  yôunger  ha' d'o  ' ' 
ma„  bvt  he  hadlef.me,  forever.-I  thought,  a^l  weat  ed  ^f 
my  duU  coun,ry  life  sad  an/'disap^intedy ac «IJ 
h.n,.  The  ™a„  I  loved  f^ed  Mr..  GUbert.  Liston  1,1 
tell  you  why,  if  you  askhin,.  In  ihat  hatred  he  «7^ 
plan  o(  .revenge.     He'cared  nothing- foruTe     he  „     k 

httle  fool  to  whom  a  wise  man  had  givenhil  heart    wk,f 

becameof  me  did.not  ,^„er.     Ti,ref  days  Bete^ed 

:.   ^ng-day  he  came  to  me  and  ^gÇd  me  to,fly-^IT^'' 

.     Heloveçl  me  he  said  ;  ^  w^ld4,,i,  „eTisJfe    he 

«ould  corne  (or  m;  answTr  the  nex.  night.     I  ^I  ^ett 

Istolefromfrr"™-  ^'-«"Vwhen  th^r. L^ 
I  stole  from  the  house  to  meet  him  :  iiot  to  *  wi*  hiî^ 
.he  good  God  kn„„s-to  refuse  him,  to  (.^r^t  Wm  to  keS 
.0  myduty  if  my  heart  broke  in  the  kefplg.  h  had  a 
horse  and  carnage  waitiig,  and-j^to  t^is  dSy  I  hàrdly  know 
fe.w-he  ™ade  „,e  e„^r  it,  and  drove  me  «4  I  c^d  „  " 
.  for  help  ;  ,t  wa.  too  llfe  ;  no  o„e  heard  me.^  H,   «,hed 


■ï 


)  • .. 


*  •> 


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.  o  k  -"'     . 


«  LA  URENCE.  THORND  J 'KE^ 


^77 


me  with  hjs  specious  promises,  and  perhaps  I  was  not 
dîfficurt  to  soothe.  It  was  too  late  to  go  back  ;  1  thought  he 
lovèd  me  and  went  ôn.^  Jt^e  took  me  to  Bostoni'  There,  ncxt 
•  morning  in  the,,Jiotei,  without  witnessefe;  we  weremarried. 
A  man,aclergymart,he  told  me„came,  a  ceremony  of  somê" 
sert  was  gone  through,  we  were  pronounced  man  and  wife. 
•♦  He  took  me  witbhim  to  a  cottage  he  liad  engaged  by 
the  sea  sHore.  For  three  weeks  he  remained  with  me 
there,  tired  to  death,<pf  me,  l'know  now.  Then  he  was 
summoned  to  New  York  to  his  home,  and  I  was  left.  Mr. 
Darcy,  he  nçver  came  back. 

,  •''I  waited  foT  him  weeks  and  weeks— ah,  dear  i^aven  ! 
.  what  weeks  those  were.  Then  the  truth  was.told  me. 
,His  un,cle's  servant  was  in  his  conftdence.  I  was  deserted 
I  hadneverbeen  his  wife,  not  for  one  hour.  T^ieman 
who  had  come  to  the  hôtel  was  no  clergyman  ;  he 
was  going  to  be  married^ih  D^ecembef  ;  I  was  to  go  back 
tp*my  friends  ând  trouble  hîm  no  more.  That  was  my 
fate._  I  had  be^  betrayed  from^first  to  last,  and  he  had 
donc  with  me  forever. 

^Well,.that  is  more  than  six  months  agt».  I  don't  know 
whetherheartseverbreâkexcepfin  l^oks.  T  knv^w  l  «,« 
living  stïll,  and  likejy  to  live.  But  not  hew.  4  htive  de- 
ceived  you,  Mr.  Darcy,  bût.  I  t^  you  the  tmth  to-night 
And  to-night,  if  you  like^  I  will^x" 

He  rose  slowly  tcjiis  feet  ;*^wift.  dark  passion  in  ^is 
eyes— swift,  h^vy.angei' knitting  his  shaggy  brown.     ^f. 
held  to  the  arms  of  his  chair  and  luokejl  down  upon  \^ 
^is  ftice.  sët4iàrd  ai  iron.  ", 

■r  "Sit  there  !  "  he  ordered.  "Tell  me  the  scoundiers  name:' 
The  dar ft  eyes  looked  up  at  hini  i  the  gravely  dipet  voict 
Bpoke.  -  j^  '    i»  .'        .  .  " 


I 


4 


îrai 


)w< 


ui-ence  'rHohid)4ce." 


/ 


^. 


^ir- 


* 


/  f 


M-  .'  ■ 


< .  i 


M    "!■ 


^4 


■•^J 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A    LETTER    FROM    PARIS. 

HT  is  a  sunny  summer  afternoon.  The  New 
York  pavements  are  blistering  in  the  heat, 
and  even  Broadway  looks  half  deserted.  Up^ 
town,  brown  stone  mansions  are  hermetically 
sealed  for  the  season,  the  ^salt  of  the  earth" 
drmking  the  waters  at  Saratoga,  gazing  at  the  tre.nbling 
rapids  of  Niagara,  or  disporting  theniselves  on  the  beach 
at  Long  Branch.  The  workers  of  the  earth  still  burrow  in 
their  City  holes,  through  heat,  and  dust,  and  din,  and  glare 
and  among  them  Richard  Gilbert.  ' 

,    He  sits  alone  this  stifiing  August  afternoon,  in  his  down-  ' 
town  ofiice.     The  green  shades  that  do  their  best  to  keep 
out  the  white  blinding  glare  and  fail,  are  iclosed.    The 
Windows  stand  wide,  but  no  grateful  bre<?4e  steals  in      He 
sits  at  his  desk  in  a  loose  linen  coat,  fiiùltitudinous  docu- 
ments labelled,  scattered,  and  tied  up  before  him      But  it 
is  a  document  that  does  not  look  légal,  that  is  absorbing 
his  attention.     It  is  a  letter,  and  the  envelope,  lying  beside 
him  on  the  floor,  bears  the  French  postmark.     He  sits 
and  re-reads  with  a  very  grave  and  thoughtful  face.     «'  H 
is  queer,"  he  is  thinking,  «  uncommonly  queer.     She  inust 
be  an  a^venturess,  and  a  cl^r  onè.      Of  course  she  has 
lirheedled  him  iijfo  making  Av  will,  and  the  lion's  share 
mil  go  to  herself.     Hum  ■  wonder  what  Thorndvke 
yiU  say.  -Xome  ip."  w  ^*^' 


A  LETTER  FROM  PARIS. 


179 


He  pushes  the  paper  away,  and  answers  a  discreet  tap  at 
Ihe  door. 

"  Lady  and  ^sitleman  to  see  you,  sir,"  announces  a  clerk, 
and  the  lady  and  gentleman  enter. 

"  Hope  we  don't  disturb  you,  squire,"  says  the  gentle- 
man, and  Mr.  Gilbert  rises  suddenly  to  his  feet.  "Me 
and  Hetty,  we  tJiought  as  how  it  would  keinder  lodk  bad 
to  go  back  vrithout  droppin'  in..  Hot  day,  squire— now 
ain'tit?" 

"  My  dear  Miss  Kent — ^my  dear  Uncle  Reuben,  this  îs 
an  unlooked-for  pleasure.  You  in  the  city,  and  in  the 
blazing  month  of  August.    What  tempted  you  ?  " 

"Well,  now,  blame^d  if  I  know.  Only  Hetty  hère,  she'a 
bin  sorter  ailin'  lately,  and  old  Dr.  Perkins,  he  said  a 
change  would  do  her  a  heap  of  good,  and  Hetty,  she'd 
never  seen  New  York,  and  so— that's  abôut  it.  Squire  ! 
we've  had  a  letter." 

He  sajrs  it  abruptly,  starii^ig  very  hard  straight  before 
him.  Aunt  Hetty  fidgets  in  her  chair,  and  Richard  Gil- 
bert's  pale,  wotn  face  grows  perhjips  a  shade  paler. 

"  A  letter,"  he  repeats  ;  "  from^  ^  1  " 

"  From  her.  Two  letters,  if  it  cpmes  to  that.  One  from 
this  hère  town  last  Christmas— »t%ther  from  foreign  parts 
a  wèek  ago.  I  want  to  show  'em'to  yqu.  Here's  number 
one."  .  , 

He  takes  a  letter  in  an  envelope  from  his  pocket,  and 
hands  it  to  the  lawyer.  It  seenn  almost^  life-time  ago, 
but  the  thrill  that  goes  through  Richard  Gilbert  at  sight 
of  that  writing  still  I 

•*  Last  Chrîstmas,"  he  Sciys  g l«n€in|f  at  the  postmark,  a 
shade  of  reproach  in  his  liMe.  "  \nd  you  nevei*  told 
me  !  " 


,.  «_  .^   .!<;,«.  . 


^  ^^ 


i8o 


NOJNNE'S  RE  VENGE. 


4hing  to  talk  about,  least  of  ail  to  you.     She   doesn't  de 
.  serve  a  thought  from  you,  Mr.  Gilbert-" 
The  lawyer  stopped  him  with  a  gesture 

diri' nn^'^^  f '^''^"  ^'^  ^^"^  ^^°'"  he''answers;  •'  she 
did  not  care  for  me.  Better  she  should  fly  from  me  before 
marnage  than  after.     Th.nk-HeaVen  she  is  alive  to  w^U 

\ .    He  opens  the*  note.     It  is  veiy  short 

«Pear  Aunt Hetty-^Dear  Uncle  Reuben-Dear  Uncle 

bv^e  r  ^t  '''  "^^'— %  -  I  am,  still  call  you 
by  the  dear  old  namés.  This  is  the  third  time  I  hive 
M.>tten  «rvce  I  left-h^me/but  I  hâve  reason  to  think  yo" 

vn-ite  noi,  lo  beg  you  on  my  knees  for  forgiveness     Oh 
,    to  see  your  dear  faces  once  more-to  look  Zain  ^n  L 

of  myself }  I  am  Well-I  am  busyW  am  as  happy  as  I  dï 
serve,  ^  can  ever  ,xpect  to  be.     I  am  safely  shehered  in  à 
èoodman'shouse.    Ihavebeento  blâme,  but  oh  not  so' 
much  as  you  thin^.    Some  day  I  will  corne  to  you  and 
tell.youall.     Yours-,     '  ,  ,  /  u  di,a 

"P    «         Z/i-        .^1        Xi  NORINE. 

vr      V    ,  ^'   ^^  ^^""^  ^^^"  ^^^  since  I  came  to 

fond  î^°:,\fn-^-.gh   h^  has  not  seen  me.     May  the 
good  God  bless  hmv  and  forgive  me.  ^  k  B 

U.  *   V   A  u  ''"  "'^'  ^^'  *^""'  t^î^^'  and  had  never 

"Ze's^eÏh""''?'^^^ 
week^o."  '   ''      ^'"'''"  '^^'^^'  "^^^*  ^^^-  » 

He  laid  a  large,  foreign-looking  letter  on  the  desk  with 
many  stamps,  and  an  Italian  post-mark.        ' 


i' 


'"%• 


*■'■'    '       ''il 


LETTÈR  FROM  PARIS. 


It  was  as  short  as  the  first  >   . 

«  home  or  abroad,  sheChiï  î'        T*"'  '**'*" 
Bourdon."  '"^  loving  iece,  Ncrin* 

bal'^'  ™  '''•    ^^-^  ^-'y  *"«  "awyJhanded^he™ 
;;  Well,  squire ,"  Mr.  Kent  said,  "  whi  dJyou  think ,  " 

It  m,ght  hâve  been  worse-imight^àve  l^J  .,^''- 

"  v^.,  u  !•         .  *"»gumave  oeen  wors*»  " 

•    ,,^°"^^^^«^|  thèse letters,thén|»  !      - 


"I  don't  know  that  I  should  caretto  write  if  .h«  ^-^ 
-^^  may  forffive  her.  .n.Wr.  u.,.  ^^^^^     -'^  ^^^  **'^' 


■•V. 


aint  got  that  far  yet.     If  shê  didnV  r.  ''"^  '  ^ 

Thorndyke  Wat  did  1.         ^'^''^^'^  ^way  with  young 
«  Rpi         i!  ^^  ™"  ^^^y  at  ail  for  ?"  ^. 

iîecause  she  cared  sft  litfi»  f^, 

world  alône  was  casier  thl  h  ™^'  "^^^  fecing^tha 

^alk  of  it,  Mr  Ke^  %^    ,      ''T^"'>^  ^^^^-     ^e  Wt 

"  Wè  go.  tokiay,  thank  fortin'.    How  vou  ^rli  .f 
âge  to  livé  in  sucfe  a  Babel  beats  ri    r.nl^°"'  ™*"" 
work,  Mr.  Gilbert,  and  run  down  To  see    "i'"  J'^ 
summer  weather  ?  *  .  -  "^  *"*®  ^*2»n 

Ml.  Gilbert  sh^(^.  hjs  Kead  with  asmil. 


^;-»^ 


»-jr 


\ 


\ 


182 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 


/ 


"  I  am  afraid  not.  I  am  very  busy  ;  I  find  ha|4i  work 
does  me  good.  Well,  good-by,  old  friend.  I  am  sincerely. 
glad  to  hâve  read  those  letters — ^sincerely  glad  she  ie  safe 
and  well." 

Then  they  were  gone,  and  Richard  Gilbert  sat  dftwn  alone 
in  the  hot,  dusty  office.  But  the  dusty  office  faded  away, 
and  m  its  place  the  rich  gre&nness  of  meadows  came,  the 
sweet,  new-mown  hay  scented  the  air,  green  trees  and 
bright  flowers  surrounded  him  instead  of  âry-as-dust  légal 
tomes.  Acd  faiffer,  brighter,  sweeter  than  âll,  came  float- 
ing  back  the  «xquisite  face  of  Nlsnne,  the  dark  eyes  gleara- 
ing,  the  white  teeth  sparkling,  thé  loose  hair  blowing,  the 
soft  mouth  laughing.  And  once  she  had  promised  to  be 
his  wif  e  ! 

«Mr.  Thomdyke,  sir?" 

The  voice  of  his  clerk  aroused  him.  The  fairy  vision 
faded  and  fled,  and  Richard  Gilbert,  in  his  grimy  office, 
looked  grimiy  up  into  the  face  of  Laurence  Thomdyke. 

"  How  do,  Gilbert  ?  "  saj^s  Mr.  Thomdyke,  nodding  eas- 
ily  ;  "  hope  I  don't  intrudé.  Was  loafing  down  town,  and 
thought  I  would  just  drop  in  and  see  if  tjtiere  was  any  news 
^yet  from  the  old  man." 

Mr.  Thomdyke  has  lost  none  of  the  easy  insouciance 
that  sits  upon  him  so  niturally  and  becomingly.  He  is  in 
faultless  Broadwii)»  afternoon-promenade  costume,  but  he 
is  not  quite  as  good-looking  as  he  used  to  be.  His  hand- 
some  face  looks  wo\n  and  tired,  dissipated,  and  a  triHe 
recklesà,  and  the  old  flavor  of  wine  and  cigars  hangs  about 
him  still.  He  (Iraws  a  chair  towards  him,  and  sits  astride 
upon  it  hb  arms  folded  over  the  back. 

"  The  old  man? "  Mr.  Gilbert  repeats,  still  more  grimlf 
**  You  refer  to  Mr.  Darcy,  I  présume  ?  " 


-  .| 


A  LETTER  FROM  PARIS. 


"Who  else.    To  Darcy,  of  course^and  be  hanged  to 
htm.     Anynewsyet?"  "tugea  lo 

.,  "Ther\  is  news,,Mr:Thorndyke.  Will  you  be  kind 
enough  m  talk  ngof  my  old  and  valued  frienc^^and  you  s 
once,-to  speak  a  little  more  respectfully  ?»  ^ 

«rA!'"^!  T''  f^^ï«-dee-dee  !  "  Tetorts  Mr.  Thorndyke 
Confonnd  the  old  bloke,  I  say  again  !     What  huZess 
bas  he*  cuttmg  up  the  wav  Hp  A,rc^,^  "usiness, 

martiale  ?     1  ^a  =  l  ^^^  "P  ^''^'"  «'"^e  my  . 

marnage?     I  did  everything  I  couldto  please  him~I 

Zs^Z'T''^?'!^'''  ''''  ^^^^^^^^"^  '  -^^^to 

please  him.  He  wanted  me  to  marry  Helen.  Well  haven't 
I  marrzed.  Helen?     He  wanted  us  to    go  W^^h  hTm  l 

fnZV:ol^^\H'';'"' ^^  ^^"^^  backlom'tbe  sltH 
wh^  H  !..  ^""  '"  ^'^  ^^  P^^  agreement  ?  .And 
bas    ta:te7off       r^""''  ''^^  ^'^  ^^"^^^^^^  muddie-bead 

'  ston's  S?  f;" j"-f dopted,  or  that  bosb-Cniece  of 
J..ston  s.  Started  off  without  a  word-without  one  blessed 
jyord  of  excuse  or  explanation  to  Heleh  or  m"  " 

01  respect!    By  Jove,  sir,  I  consider  myse]f— Helen  rnn 
^.ders  herself,  shamefuUy  ù-ea.ed.  Andir.  .TlrebZ- 
.ng  ahve  >„  New  York  this  beastly  ho.  weather  LiTad 
L  II™'  ^o-"--.  -  Newport,  or  so^llt  e 
luter  that  rêver  cornes.     YouVe  heard  from  him,  you  sav 

from  hii^     """■■"/to  say  for  himself.     I  hâve  not  heard 

TLrndyle  p'  ""  '  "''  '"'"''  "-^  "'»•      "-  «  «- 

.mT'"  f  rf"^''  '"  •'««'"'-devilish  cross  in  temper.  The 
old  s.o.y±r,„  a  «,etch,  drink  ton  miirh.  g^mbl.  t'u  u.udÇ 


■» 

r 


V 


I84 


NORJNE  S  RE  VENGE. 


spend  too  m.uch,  keep  too  late  hour§.  Tell  '  you  wli^t, 
Gilbert,  matrimony's  a  fraud.  Whilst  I  thpught  Neliieivas 
the  old  man's  pet  and  I  was  his  heir,  it  was  ail  well 
^enough  ;  blessed  if  I  know  what  to  think  now.  Are  you 
going  to  tell  me  what  you  hâve  heard  ^him  ?  ''y 

In  silence,  and  with  a  face  of  aontemptuous  disgust,  Mr. 
Gilbert  takes  up  the  French  lettei  points  to  a  column,  and 
watçhes  him.  This  is  what  Mr.  Thorndyke,  with  a  face  oJ 
horrof,  reads: 

"  I  présume  you  know  that  your  old  friend  and  client, 
Hugh  Dai-cy,  died  hère  two  days  ago.  The  bulk  of  his 
fortune,  I  hear,  is  left  to  the  beautiful  young  widow,  Mrs. 
Liston,  whom  he  had  legally  adopted.  She  takes  his 
name,  and  with  her  own  rare  loveliness,  and  Darcy's  half 
million,  Mrs.  Liston-Darcy  is  destined  to  make  no  ordinary 
sensation  when  she  returns  to  New  York."    y 


^ 


■^^ 


V      »i 


.r 


\: 


^ 


<. 


^^i 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

AFTER     FOUR     YEARS. 

RITING  again-eternally  writing  !    One  would 
tbxnk   it  was    Mrs.   Jellyby.      Confound    the 
scribbhng,  I  say.     Do,  for  Heaven's  sake,  put 
it  down,  Nellie,  and  let  us  hâve  some  dinner  i  " 
J^T7"'Tu"''u^'  angrily-Mr.  Laurence  Thorndyke 
to  the  wifç  of  his  bosom.     It  is  five  o'clock,  of  a  brilliant  - 
summer  afternpon.  a  stiflingfy  close  and  oppressive  after- 
noon,  m  the  shabby  street,  in  the  shabby  tenement  where- 
in  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thorndyke  dwell.     The  scène  is  a  din^ 
partor-pingram  carpet,^cane  chairs,  fly-blown  wall  papeT 
and  a  lady  m  a  soiled  and  torn  wrapper  discovered  at  a 
table  rapidly  wnting.     A  child  of^o  years,  a  little  boy  " 
w,th  Laurence  Thorndyke's  oyyn%  eyes  and  curling' 
looks  toddles  about  the  floor. .  In  a  Wet  cradle  therf 
..s  coiled  up|  a  httle  white  bail  of  a  baby.'    The  lady  jogs  - 
h.scradI^Whherfootasshewrites.  A  lady,  youngind     . 
handsome,  though  sadly  faded,  hen  profusion 'oflighthair 
ail  towsy  and  ancombed,  her  bro4,  knit  in  otie  straight 
frowmnghne.     She  pauses  in  her  work  for  a%econdlo 
glance  up-anything  but  a  loving  giance,  by  ti.e  by^and 
to  answer  :  ■■  ,       ■^ 

"I  don't  know  Mrs.  Jellyby,  Mr.  ^orndyke.  -  Did  she 
wnte  to  keep  herself  and  her  chilf  en  from  st Wng  I 
wonder,  while  her  husband  gambled  and  drank  their  sub 


■•I 


.>■     •  ^■in.^i  - 


->?V: 


t.,      '>3  *^      .■ 


V . 


186 


"  NORiNE'S  RE  VENGE.  . 


i'. 


stance  ?  A»  fo  dinnçr-~couldn't  you  manage  to  get  Ihat 
meal  in  the  places  you  spend  your  days  and  nights  ?  Thera 
is  some  bread  and  butter  on  the  kitehen  table— ^ome  tea 
on  the  kitehen  stove.  Joanna  will  give  them  to  you  if 
you  like.  You  are  not  likely  to  find  Champagne  and  orto- 
Jans  in  a  tenement  house." 

And  then,  the  pretty  lips  setting  themselves  in  a  tight, 
unpleasant  line,  Mrs.'  Thomdyke  goes  back  to  her  work. 

She  writes  very  rapjdly,  in  a  bold,  firm  hand,  heedless 
of  the  child  who  prattles  and^clirtgs  to  her  skirts.  They 
are  law  papers  she  is  copying,  in  that  clear,  legible  chiro- 
graphy. 

For  in  three  years  it  has  corne  to  this.  Four  tiny  ten- 
ement roôms  in  a  shabby,  crowded  street,  soiled  and  torn 
pers,  bread  and  tea  dinners,  one  small  grimy  maid  of 
Tvork,  a  drunkard  and  gambler  instead  of  her  brijliant 
jegroom,  and  law  papers  to  copy  ail  day  and  far  into 
^  night,  for  the  friend  of  her  girlhoo^  Mr.  Richard  Gi^- 
:rt,  to  "keep  the  wolf  from  the  door." 
"  D-^  your  catlap  ?  "  says  Mr.  Thomdyke,  with  «a  sc0wl 
of  disgust.  "I  say,  Nellie,  do  stop  that  infernal  scribble, 
scrabble,  and  ipend  out  for  oysters.  I  haven't  eatCn  a 
mouthfurto-d^— I  had  such  a  splitting  headaché  *this 
morning,  and  [  haven't  a  sou  left." 

"  And  how  m^ny  sous  do  you  suppose  7 hâve  left? "  the 
>yifedemânds  wîth  flashing  eyes.  "I  paid  the  landlord 
the  rent  to-day,  and  I  hâve  to  buy  coal  to-morrow.  Oys- 
ters !  "  she  laughs,  scornfully;:  "  I  hâve  forgotten  what  they 
are.  As  to  your  headache— probably  if  you  had  drank 
iess  whiskey  last  night,  you  would  not  hâve  sufïered  so 
severely  this  morning.  What  there  is  in  the  house  you 
are  welcome  to.    I  shall  send  for  nothing." 


^ 


AFTER  FOUR    YEARS. 


187 


The  lîps  tighten  still  more— she  goes  résolutely  on  with 
her  writing.  , 

Mr.  Thomdyke  relieves  his  mindby  an  oath  atld  a  growl, 
as  he  flings  himself  heavily  upon  4  lounge.  His  wife 
writes  on  and  pays  no  attention.  JÊk  haS  grown  accus- 
tomed  to  be  sworn  ai— it  hardly  a^^  wêr  riow. 

He  lies  and  watches  her  with  gloomy  eyes.  Those  three 
years  hâve  changed  him  deepening  the  reckless,  dissipa- 
ted  look  worn  and  aged  him  strangely.  Handsom*e  he  is 
still,  but  haggard,  the  brilliant  eyes  dimmedand  bloodshot, 
the  hand  tremulous,  an  habituai  scowl  on  his  brow.  " 
"  What  does  Gilbert  pay  you  for  that  bosh  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  About  three  times  as  much  as  he  would  pay  any  one 
else.  You  see  he  knew  my  father,  and  doe'sn't  care  to  look 
on  and  see  my  father's  daughter  starve.  Be  kind  enough 
net  to  talk  to  me,  Mr.  Thorndyke— I  don't  wish  to  make 
mistakes." 

"  Day  has  been  when  you  liked  to  hâve  me  talk  to  you 
wellenough,"  retorts,  Mr.  Thorndyke,  with  another  sullen 
oath.  /  . 

"Yes,  I  wasa'fool— no  need  to  remind  me  of  it     Ntf 
•  one  can  regret  it  more  than  I  do.     Happily  that  day  is 
past.     Voù  hâve  cured  me  signally  of  my  folly.*' 

There  is  a  pause.     Mrs.  Thorndyke  immovably  writes. 
Mr.  Thorndyke  lies  sullenly  and  looks  on.     At  last— 
"  Slp  has  come,"  he  says,  abruptly. 
His  wife  lifts  her  eyes, 

''Mrs  Liston  Darcy— devil^take  her  !   And  I  am  a  gorng" 
to  see  her  to-night  !  " 
Still  that  silent  questioning  gaze, 

"  I  met  Allison  out  there— >4e  hasn't  eut  me  if  ail  the  rest 
Jyilg^lg^lg-tQbeayijartxa^^^^^^  lamgoing.' IX 


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2»  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  ri.Y.  14580 

(716)873-4503 


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,.ir  '    -**53W.  . 


H'r*^'* 


^a:^<^M'^; 


i88 


NORINETS  RE  VENGE. 


"May  I  ask  why?    What  can you  possibly  hav^e  to  say 
.    to  Mr.  Darcy's  heiress  "  ?  f"^* 

"  I  shall  see  her,  at  least.     They  tell  me  she  is  pretty. 
I  must  own  I  always  h  ad  a  weakness  for  pretty  and  pleasant 
'women.     I  must  own  also  I  never  see  one  at  home." 

Her  eyes  flash  at  the  sneer. 

"  I  am  quite  aware,  Mr.  Thorndyke,  of  your  piedilec- 
tion  for  pretty  women.  Haven't  you  paid  rather  dearly 
though  for  the  fancy  ?  Was  the  brief  society  of  Miss  Lucy 
West  and  Miss  Norine  Bourdon  sufficient  compensation 
for  the  loss  of  a  fortune  ?  " 

He  rises  to  his  feet,  his  face  flushing  dack,  angry  red. 

"  You  know  that  ?  "  he  exclaims. 

She  laughs  contemptuously. 

"  I  know  that  ;  I  know  much  more  than  that.  You  did 
not  show,  me  the  letter  left  by  Mr.  DàS'cy  for  you  at  his 
death,  but  you  did  not  destroy  it.  That  letter  I  hâve  read. 
He  States  his  reasons  for  disinheriting  you  plainly  enough, 
does  he  not  ?  And  for  my  part,  ail  I  hâve  to  say  is,  served 
you  right." 

^Sbe  rises,  gathers  her  papers  together,  binds  them  up, 
and  without  looking  athim,  sweeps  from  the  room. 

"  Joanna  !  "  she  calls,  "look  after  Laufie'  and  baby.  I 
am  going  down  tpwn." 

She  dresses  herself  hastily^  and  in,  her  cheap  hat  and 
muslin  dress,  manages  somehow  to  look  stylish  and  dis- 
tinguished  still.  She  takes  an  opftnibus,  rides  to  Wall 
Street,  and  enters  Mr.  Gilbert's  of^ce. 

Mr.  Gilbert  receives  her  with  cordial  kindness,  takes  the 
papers,  glances  over  them,  prononnçes  them  well  donc, 
andgives  her  two  crisp  five-doUar  greenbacks.  The  color 
come$  into  her  pale  cheeks.  '^ 


/ 


I    !:.■ 


»..-^, 


f# 


y- 


\i^H 


'Jt^ijJjVV    . 


ir^i. 


After 


FOUR    YEARS. 


189 


"  You  pay-^ae  s*n»uch  more  than  the  copying  is  worth,"  v 
sbe  faltcrs.     " Œ  Mr.  Gilbert,  good,  kind,  faithful  friend, 
what  would  T^ecome  of  me  and  my  babies  but  for  you  ?  " 
He  stops  her  with  a  quick  gestUre. 
,"  Hush  !  not  one  cent  more  than  the  wark  is  justly  worth. 
i^d  ail  is  gone  then,  Mrs.  Thorndyke  .>  " 
'  "  Ail  1  ail  !  "  she  says,  drearily  j  "  long  ago." 
**  I  know  that  your  marriageportion  was  squandered  the 
first  year,  but  Mr.  Darcy  left  you  te n  thousand  dollars  at 
his  death.     It  was  left  to  you— /5tf  coulcf not  touch  it.     You 
should  hâve  kept  that." 

"  Should  hâve  kept  it  !     He  could  not  touch  it  !  "  "  She 
laughs  bitterly.     "Mydear  Mr.  Gilbert,  don't  you  know 
that  a  married  woman  can  be  kicked  or  kissed  into  any- 
thing?    I  will  do  Mr.  Thorndyke  the  justice  to  say  he 
tried  both  methods  while  there  was  a  dollar  left.     If  it 
were  not  for  my  children  I  would  hâve  left  him  long  ago— 
if  it  were  not  for  them  I  could  wish  I  were  dead,  Mr. 
Gilbert."     She  lays  her  hand  upon  his  arm  and  looks  up 
into  his  face  with  blue,  glittering  eyes.     "  I  hâve  read  t|ie 
£tter  Mr.  Darcy  wrote  him  before  he  died." 
"  You  hâve  ?  "  the  lawyer  says,  startled. 
"  I  know  the  story  of  Norine  Bourdon.   Oh,  Mr.  Gflbert 
if  you  were  not  more  ange!  than  man  you  would  1^  tau- 
rence  Thorjndyke's  wife  and  children  starve  befofe  your 
eyes  !" 

"Hush!"  he  says  again  huskily,  «for  pity's  sake, 
Nellie.  I  only  wish  you  would  take  the  money  without 
the  work.  The  betrayer  of  a  Ipvihg  and  innocent  girl  is 
in  the  hands  of  God— there  I  leave  him.  But  for  you— do 
you  not  know  that  Mrs.  Liston-Darcy  has  made  a  proposa! 
to  me  for  you  ?" 


;i^ 


igo 


NORINE\^  RE  VENGE. 


"r  .; 


•' 


,"  For  me  ?  No.  '  I  know.  that  she  has  arrived,  that  is  ail. 
■  you  hâve  seen  her,  ^hen ?" 

"Not  yet  Sh^s  comiçèF^o-day;  I  expect  her  every 
moment.  She  sent  me  a  note  telling  me  of  it.  It  is  this: 
when  your  life  with  your  husband  becomes  unendurable-^^ 
when  he  forces  you  to  leave  him,  she  is  instructed  to  pro- 
vide for  you  and  your  children.  It  was  Mr.  Darcy's  wish 
— ^it  is  hers.  A  home  aiïà  a  compétence  areyours  any  day 
on  that  condition."     * 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door. 

"Mrs.  Liston-Darcy,  sir,"  announced  the  clerk. 

"  I  will  go,"  Helen  said,  rising  hastily.  "  The  day  ^vhen 
I  shall  be  glad^  to  accept  Mrs.  Darcy's  offer  may  not  be 
far  distant.  I  cannot  meet  her  now.  You  will  send  me 
more  work  to-morrow  ?  Thank  you  a  thousand  times,  and 
good-by." 

She  flittçd  from  the  room.  Jn  the  outer  office  sat  a  lady 
dressed  ii\  a  black  sîlk  walking  costume,  and  wearirig  a 
cloâe  veil  of  black  lace.  The  next  ùitent  Mrs.  Thorn- 
dyke  was  in  thé  street,  and  Mrs.  ^^mBk  being  ushered 
into  Mr.  Gilbert's  sanctum.  .  ,  *^^ 

He  looked  at  her  curiously.  ^athertall,  slender,  grace- 
ful,  élégant,  that  he  saw,  but — ^what  was  there  about  her 
that  so  suddenly  made  hi»  puises  leap  ? 

Still  veiled,  she  sat  down* 

"  I  am  a  litde  late  for  my  appointment,"  she  began  j  "  I 
was  unexpectedly  detained.  I  hâve  not  kept  you  waiting, 
Ihope?" 

He  tumed  pale — he  sat  quite  silent.  He  heard  the 
voice,  but  not  the  words  :  his  eyes  were  riveted  upon  the 
reil.     ^f^  was  fhis  woman  ? 

"  Mr.  Gilbert,"  she  said,  falteringly,  "  I  see  you  know  me." 


*  ^  .  Sk 


1    \    -,  ^ 


-  ,,     s    ^».i* ■!•-!.*% 


AFTES  POUR  yEA^jS. 


'91 

Sheliftedj>erveil,and%a.  beforehimlrevealed-Norine 
Nonne  I  Af ter  four  year^Norine.  4gra^,  ashen  pX 

r,„tT,  '  ^  '™"  •"  "^  «P^-  ^She^rembled  an" 
sh,»k  before  Ju»  gaze;  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  and  tumed  away.     y  . 

"  Fojgive  me  I  »  she  said,  brokenly.    »  Oh,  forgive  me  I 
Hyou  kn«w  how  I  havesuffered,  Jéed  you  migf™ 

second"  i, H  '°  "'  "^^  '"  "  <'"«'  *»y  fo'  a 

Th7?  u"""  "^'^^^  "''  "  '""«''  3"»"  Little  Nonne  1 
They  told  me  it  was  Mrs.  Liston-Darcy  " 

He  stared  at  her  bewildered.     ~  \  <» 

"  YoH/  Her  name  was  Jane  Liston"^'       \ 
T  i^^'  ÎÎT^  wasiNçrin^  Bourdon.    There  Was  no  Tane 
Liston     That  wasthe  name  under  which  I  wXst  ii^^ 

to  the  few  of  %.  Darcy's:  friends  whom  I  met.  ànHo 

Z  Ztl  T^t'  ''T  ^^  "^™^  P-bli^heïtm 
nrst  tç  last    Mr.  Darcy  knew  ail  my  story,  knéw  ail 
about  me.    But  you,  Mr.  Gilbert-it  is  very  late T  ,h. 
.day  to  ask  yonr  forgiveness  for  the  great  woniTd  H 
fc-yeajs  ago,  butfrom  my  heart  I  fot^P  '  ^"^ 

..erkyTr«"eSrdS:;::^r*Vt".c^ 

"I  forgave  you  long  ago,  Mrs.  Darcy,"  hç  said  vert 
coldly:  "praydonotthink  of  me  at  ail  and  aSt  1^ 
congratulatipns  upon  your  ^eat  acce^sin^  ^"l;',^^.  "^ 


.■"n^- 


■k 
•4 


■  r  • 


■"■^  _  > 


>•  ' 


/%.. 


*• 


m 


NORINEPS  RE  VENGE. 


Her  head   dropped,  het  cheeks  flushed.    Those  threc 
.  years  had  changed  her  into  a  beautiful,  self-possessed, 
'  ealm-eyed  woman  ;  but  her  faltering  voice,  her  drooping 
hcad,  her  downcast  eyes  were  very  humble  now. 

"  I  did  wrong— wrong  too  greut  for,forgiveness  ;  but  if 
iuffering  can  atone  for  sin,  then  surely  I  hâve  atoned. 
Let  me  tell  you  the  story  of  that  bitter  time.  It  is  your 
due,  and  mine." 

He  bent  his  head.  With  lips  compressed  and  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  desk  before  him,  he  listened  while  she  faltered 
forth  her  confessioÉ 

"  I  had  no  thought  of  going  that  night  when  I  left  the 
house.  Oh  !  beHeve  this  if  you  can,  Mr.  Gilbert — no 
thought,  as  Heaven  hears  me,  of  flying  with  him.  I  was 
in  the  carriage  and  far  away,  it  seems  to  Ae,  before  I  real- 
ize<J  it;  and  then — listening  to  his  false  words  and  promises 
— it  seemed  too  late  to  tum  back,  and  I  went  on." 

She  told  him  the  story  of  the  after-time — of  ^  al|-^truth- 
fiilly  arid  earnestly,  up  to  the  night  of  her"^cor*«sion  to 
Mr.  Darcy«  , 

"  He  was  like  a  man  beside  himself  with  fury,"  she  said. 
"  Liston  <;ame  to  indorse  my  words  and  tell  the  story  of 
Lucy  West.  Then  he  swore  a  mighty  oath  that  he  would 
never  look  upon  Laurence  Thorndyke's  face  again.  So, 
without  a  word,  we  went  away — ^he  and  I,  and  Liston.  No 
father  could  be  kinder,  no  friend  truer.  I  believe  the  blow 
hastened  his  end.  Wé  went  to  France,  to  Italy.  Ail  the 
time  he  was  fa'.'.inç.  When  he  knew  he  must  die,  he  told 
me  what.he  intendéd— he  would  make  me  his  dfeiughter 
legîrily  and  leave  me  ail. 

"  Mr.  Gilbert,  I  had  vowed  within  myself  to  be  revenged 
ippon  Laurence  Thoradyke  sooner  or  later.    11119  was  the 


-4-r  ..^ 


.W^ 


JF^P 


\    •■•y 


AJ^TE/l  FQ17R    \eARS.  ,q. 

•  beginningof  my  revenge.     He  make  his  will,  leavîng  ail 
to  me.  except  ten  thousand  dollars  to  Helen  Thorndyke 
and  ji  annuity  to  Liston.    Three  dU  aftçr  he  died.        ' 
What  came  af ter,  you  know-howtaurence  Thorndyke 
wnh  ail  h,s  might,  sought  to  hâve  thaV  •  will  set  aside,  and 
hoj  signally  he  failed    Mr.  Darcy  gale  hi.  reasons  t;  you 
and  to  him  plamly  and  clearly.     For  ^is  own  crimes  he 
,  was  dismhented.     Mr.  Darcy's  fortune\was,  and  is,  mine. 
For  the  rest  thèse  three  years  I  hav^  spent  wandering 
over  Europe      I  hâve  corne  home  to  relin  this  summef 
and  wmter,  then  I  go  back.     I  hâve  comi  too,  to  askyour 
forgiveness  and  theirs  down  at  home.     MV.  Gilbert-it  il 
more  than  I  ought  to  ask,  but,-will  you  n\t  say,  '  I  par- 
don you'.?"  \     ^'        P^^ 

She  held  out  her  hands  imploringly,  her  eye\  full  of  tears 
He  ook  them  m  his  and  clasped  them  for  a  ilment,  look^ 
mg  straight  mto  her  eyes.  A 

"  With  ail  my^eart,  Nonne  !  With  ail  my  heWt  I  wish 
you  well  and  happy  !  "'  ^    ^»i"i  i  wisn 

Mr.  Allison's  house  is  a  stately  up-town  mansio\,  brown 
tone,  stuccoan^r  élégance  generally  ;  and  Mr.  Xs^'s 
house  xs  ail  ahght  and  alive  to-night.  Mrs.  Allison\Zs 
a  réception,  and  fair  women  and  brave  men  muster  stCg 
and  fazrest,  where  ail  are  more  or  less  fair,  is  tl^e  yolfu/ 
and  wealthy  heiress  of  old  Hugh  Darcy.     -  \ 

\mong  the  very  latest  arrivais  comes  Mr.  LaureL 
Thorndyke.  Time  has  been  when  bright  eyes  br^htenï 
a,r  cheeks  flUshed,  and  délicate  puise!  leaped  at  htS 

al  the  golden  youth  of    New   York   none    were  m^^A 

9 


A" 


*/» 


.,,.1    ,,  V     ^ 


't» 


194 


NORINE'^  RE  VENGE. 


That  day  also  is  over.  Time  has  been  when  the  most  ex- 
clûsive,  most  recherche  doors  of  "Fifth  avenue  flew  gladly 
open  at  his  approach.  That  day,  likewise,  is  over.  Tlie 
places  that  knew  him,  know^iim  no  morff;  heisanoutcast 
and  a  Bohemian  ;  he  drinks,  he  gamblés,  he  is  poor  ;  his 
coatis  gray  at  the  seams  ;  bistre circles  surround ^is  eye^  ; 
his  haggard,  handsome  face  tells  the  story  of  Ws^fe^.;;^^ 
the  Old  élégance  and  old  fascination  of  maiWîf,  1ii^^> 
still.  People  rather  stare  to  see  him  hère.  ^s.  Alli- 
sonr'frowns.  "  She  has  flirted  desperately  with  him 
"âges "  ago  j  but  really  bygones  shôuld be  bygones,  aipd  Mr. 
Thomdyke  ha»  gone  to  the  dogs  in  so  pronounced  «^  man- 
ner,  and  been  disinherited  for  some  dreadful  doingi  and, 
really  and  truly,  the  Une  must  be  drawn  somewherè,  and 
it  is  inexcusable  in  Mr.  Allison  to  hâve  asked  him  at  ail, 

"  No  one  invites  him  now,"  Mrs.  Allison  says,  indignant- 
ly.  "  Both  he  and  Helen  are  socially  extinct.  They  say 
she  takes  in  sewing,  and  lives  in  a  dreadful  tenement  house 
away  over  by  the  East  River — and  with  dear  Mrs.  Liston- 
Darcy  hère  and  everything  !  Of  course  it  can't  be  pleasant 
for  them  to  meet.  He  contested  the  will — if  he  should 
make  a  scène  to-niçht  ! — good  heavens  !  No  doubt  he  is 
half-tipsy — they  Say  he  always  is  half-tipsy — and  look  at 
his  dress  !  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Arthur 
Allison,  for  asHing  him  !  "       . 

«  Co\ildn't  help  it,  Hattie — give  you  my  word  now,"  re- 
sponds  Arthur  meekly  ;  '  he  as  good  jis  asked  me  to  àsk 
him,  when  he  heard  Mrs.  Darcy  was  coming.  And  he  wants 
to  be  introduced,  and  l've  promised,  and  there's  no  use 
niaking  a  fuss  now.  He  isn't  tipsy,  and  I  don't  believe 
there  will  be  a  scène.  l'il  introduce  him  at  oncej  the 
\  sooner  ifs  over,  the  better." 


:;3SH:.: 


'■■■  f^3^^.     ' 


....:p 


•  f  ":4 


AFTER  FOUR   YEARS. 


195 


He  goes  off  uneasily,  and  leads  Mr.  Thorndyke  into  an 
fnner  room;  where  a  lady  sits  at  the  piano,  singing.    A 
/  lady  elegantly  dressed  in  white  silk,  and  violet  trimmings, 
with  a  white   perfumery  rj^se  in  her  black  hair.     Herface 
is  averted — Mr.  Thorndyke  glaresvindictivelyat  thewoman  ' 
uho  has  ousted  him  out  of  a  fortune.     She  is  a  béautifui 
singer,  and  somehow — somehow,  the  sweet  powerful  con- 
tralto tones  are  strangely  familiar.     Can  be  bave  ever 
heard  her  before? 
Shé  finishes.     Mr.  Allison  draws  near  the  piano. 
"  Mrs.  Darcy,"  he  says,  clearing  bis  throat,  "  will  yoù, 
allow  me  to  introduce  to  you  Mr.  Thorndyke  ?  " 
t4>  ^^^  ^^  laughingly  responding  to  a  complimentary  gentle- 
^"man  teside  her.     With  that  smile  still  on  her  lips  she  turns 
slowly  round,  lifting  up  her  eyes.     And  with  a  gasping 
Sound,  that  is  neither  word  nor  cry,  Laurence  .Tbomdyke 
stands  face  to  face  once  more  with  Norine. 


WiA 


m 


wS4t- 


^L-^îêf^ï^-^^^^fiui^fi.lw'l'  At-JiA    \i.,Jf^A-^-u^f^       '  ^^,     ^ '^ 


.«:4 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"WHOM   THE  GOnS  WISH   TO   DESTROY  THEY  FIRST 
MAKE   MAD." 

ORINE  !    And  like  this,  after  fou^  years,  tljese 
two  meet  again. 

Nonne  1     His  lips  shape  the  word,  but  no 

soiïnd  follows.     He  stands  before  her  destitute 

of  ail  power  to  speak  or  move.^  Lost  in  a  trance  of  wonder, 
he  remains  looking  down  upon  the  fair,  smiling,  upturned 
face,  utterly  confounded. 

"  I  am  very  pleased  to  meet  Mr.  Thorndyke.  By  répu- 
tation I  know  him  well." 

These/âudacious  words,  smilingly  spoken,  reach  his 
car.  air  bows,  taps  her  fan  lightly,  and  makes  some 
airy  remark  to  her  hc^*»  And  still  Laurence  Thorndyke 
stands  petrified.  She  notices,  lifts  her  eyebrows,  and  ever 
so  slightly  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"Mr.  Thorndyke  does  not  spare  me.  To"which  of 
my  defects,  I  wonder,  do  I  owe  this  steady  regard  ?  " 

"Norine!" 

The  name  breaks  from  his  lips  at  last.  He  still  stands 
and  %tares. 

She  uplifts  her  graceful  shoulders  once  more — the  old 
French  trick  of  gesture  he  remembers  so  well. 

♦*  I  remind  Mr.  Thorndyke  of  some  one,  possibly,"  she 
gays — impatience  mingled  with  her  «*-sôciety  mânner,"  this 
time — "  of  some  lady  he  knows  ?  "  ^ 


■w»  V  i,/^  ^4" 


''^î''   .»>  T-i  -A  -iJ^^v.  r^îxj.-,  ijjja»  UuJ^tnt.  '■'  ija 


'     '*, 


"WHOM  THE  GÛDS  fV/S/f,^'  ETC  197 

"  Of  some  oné  I  once  knew,  certainly,  Mrs.^Ah, 
Darcy,"  he  retorts,  his  face  flushing  angrily,  his  old  inso- 
lent  ease  of  manner  returning,  «I  am  not  sure  that  you 
would  call  her  a,lady.  She  was  a  French  Canadienne^ 
her  name— would  you  like  to  hear  her  name,  Mrs. 
Liston-Darcy  ?  " 

"  It  does  not  interest  me  at  ail,  Mr.  Thorndyke." 

"Her  name  was  Norine  Bourdon,  and  she  was  like 
— most  astoundingly  like  you  I  So  like  that  I  could  swoàr 
you  were  one  and' ffie  same."  ^       „ 

"Ah,  indeed  !  But  l'wsuld  not  take  a  rash  oath  if  I 
were  you.  Thèse  accidentai  fesembldnces  are  so  decep- 
tive.  Mr.  Wentworth,  if  you  will  give  me  your  arm,  I 
thmk  I  will  go  and  look  at  the  dancers." 

The  last  words  were  very  marked.    With  \  thill,  formai 
bow  to  Mr.  Thorndyke  she  took  her  escort's  arm,  and  turned 
.    tomoveaway.    With  that  angiy  flush  stiU  on  his  face 
that  angry  light  still  in  his  eyes,  Laurence  Thorndyke 
mterposed.  .     ..  ■     s 

"Mrs.  Darcy,  they  are  plàying^  the  /«oldaten  Lieder. 
It  is  a  favorite  waltz  of  yours,  I  know,  Will  you  not  eiva 
it  to  me  ?  "  .  * 

She  turned  upon  him  slowiy,  a  swift,  black  flash  in  hei 
eyes  that  made  him  rf^B. 

"You  make  a  mi^Me,  Mr.  gàiomdykel    Of  what  I  ^ 
^  dance  or  what  I  do  not,  you  can  possibly  know  nothmg. 
For  the  rest,  my  time  of  mouming  for  my  dear  adopted 
father  has  but  just  expired.    I  do  not  dance  at  ail." 

Then  sfib-  wâs  gone— tall,  and  fair  and  graceful  as  a 
lily.  And  Laurence  Thorndyke  Hrew  a  long  breath,  hit 
face  aglow  with  genuine  admiration. 

" By Jupiterl"  he  said|  "who'd  hâve  thought  iti    In 


( 


j 


,       4     • 


f 


4 


V     V 


198. 


NOR/NE'S  RE  VENGE.' 


the  language  of  the  immortal  DJck  ^wiveller,  •  This  -s  a 
staggerer  1  '  Who'd  hâve  thought  she'd  hâve  had  the  pluck  I 
Alid  who  w:ould*have  thov^ht  sjie^woufd  ev,er  hâve  grown 

80  handsome  ?  "  '      \  .      ' 

"  You  da  know  her^  then,  Thorndyke  ?  "  his  host  aâked, 
în  intense  curiosity.  ^  ^-^    •    -   ^%;    ,  <^ 

Mr.  Thorndyke  had  forgotten  him,  ^but  Mr.  Allison  was^ 
Still  àt  his  elbow. .  His  reply  was  a  short,  curious  laugh. 

"Know  her?  By  Jovel  I  used  to^ink  so,  but  at 
this  moment  I  am  inclined  to  doubt  it.  Hâve  you  not 
heard  her  de«^  it,  and  ladies  invariably.  tell^Ae  truth,  do 
they  not?  'thèse  accidentai  resemblances  afe  so  decep- 
tive  1  '  "  He  laughed  ^hortly.  "  So  they  are,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Darcy  1    Yes,  Allison,  it's  alfa  mistake  oh  my  part, 

no  doubt." 

He  tumed  and  swung  away  te  escape  Allison,  and  think 
his  surprise  out  His  eyes  went  after  her.  Yes,.there  she 
was  agaîn,  the  centre  of  an  admiring  group  of  allthat  was 

-  best  in  the  room.  Her  bêautiful  dark  face  was  àll  afight, 
the  black,  bêautiful  eyes,  like  dusk  diamonds,  the  waving 
hair  most  gracefuUy  worn— by  odds  tbe  hio|t  attractive 

.  woman  la  the  rooms.  Those  years  had  changed  her  won- 
derfuUy— improved  her  beyond  telling.  The  face,  clear 
eut  and  calm  as  marble,  the  lips  set  and  resplute,  the 
figure  matùred  and  grown  fjrm.     About  her^here.  was  ail 

.  thè  uplifted  ease,  the  ineffable  self-poise  of  a  woman  of 
thè  world,  conscious  of  her  beauty,  her  wealth,.  and  hei 

power. 

"  And  this  is  Norine— littfe  Norry,"  Laurence  Thorn- 

,  dyke  thought  in  his  trance  of  wonder.    "  I  can  hardly 

believe  my  own  sensés.    I  thought  her  dead,  or  buried 

•     alive  dowD  there  in  the  wilds  of  Maine,  and  lo  I  hère  she 


4^ 


/ 


^' 


^  *.>iciiA)J'« /i-Ji^^  *"     ÙÀik'fi-^l.i  <, 


\- 


■'^a 


J 


.V  ;  '        ^  .,-       -'■■■—      - .    ^    -  ■ 
\  '  ■'  '  /■       •    ,       V.  .         ■ .      ^  ' 

,        "WHOM  THE  GODS   W/SH;'  ETC.  k^ 

crops.up,old  Darcy'sheiress— beautifûl,  efegant,  and  ready 
to  face  me  with  the  courage  o(  a  stage  heroine — the  woman 
'  wjio  has  donci.  me  oufof  ja.  fortune.  This  is  fier-revcrige  I 
And  I  theught  her ,  a  love-sick  simpleton,  ready  to  lie"^ 
dowji  and, die  of  -a  'broken  heart  the  hour  I  left  her.  *B> 
George  1.'  how  handsome  she  has  grown.  It  woul4  be 
easy  ér^ugh  for  arfy  man  to  fall  in  love  with  her'now."-^ 

Shèmeant  to ignatji^^past,  utterly  and  absolutely ignore 
it— that  he  saw.    "Well,  lie  >  would  tàke  hiis  eue  from  her 
for  Ûip  preserit,  and  see  how  the  farce  would  play.    But 
/,-was  it  Norine  ?— that  self-possessed  regal-looking  lady! 
Could  it  be  that  those  dark,  calm,  haughty  eyes  had  ever 
fîlled .  with  passionate  tears  at  his  slightest  Word  of  re- 
pro^ich-?  had  ever  darkenêd  with  utter  despair  at  his  gâ- 
ing?  ;  Could  it  be  that  yopder  beautifûl,  stately  creatijre 
\  hacl  waited  and  ;ïiratch*d  for  him  in  pale  isinguish,  rii^Kt 
after  night^his  veriest  sla¥e  ?— had  clung  to  hin\,  white 
with  direst  woe,   when  he  Ôad  seen  her  last?'  ^»roUd, 
^^plifted,  calm — could  it  b^?— could  if  be?  -  *  ^^., 

'      "Norine,  surely  ;  but  flot  the  Norine  1  Jcnew— a  Noririe 
<teft  thoiftand  times  more  to-my  taste.     But  how,  in  Heav- 
en's  nanpié,  has  she  brought  this  transformation  about? 
Mrs.  Jané    Liston — old  Listoh's  nièce.       i  have'itl    I 
see  it  ail  !     Liston  is  at  tha  bottom  of  this.     It  is  his 
~  revenge  for  Lucy  West;  and  they  hâve  worked  and. plot- 
^  ted  together,  wfcilst  I,  blind  fool,  thought  him  my  friend, 
and  thought  her  too  feeble,  soûl  and  body,  to  do  anythiiig 
but  droop  and  die  when  I  left  her."     "'  "     ' 

-Yes,  he  saw  it  ail.  Like  inspiration  it  came  upon  him. 
In  his  own  coin  he  had  been  paid  ;  the  trod^en  worms 
had  turned,  and  Lucy  West  and  Norine  Bourdon  were  . 


avenged. 


; 


r- 


•u 


T^ 


/.A 


I    ■ 


> 


■^—  ■w^-r:-r-  "'■■  :-"->^^ 


200 


NORTNEPS  RE  VENGE. 


M 


-jf 


Mr.  Th^ndyke  withdrew  from  èvery  one  and  gave  him 
self  whoUy  up  to  the  study  of  Mrs.  Darcy.  There  was  no 
scène  ;  Jj^rs.  Allison  need  not  hâve  feared  it  ;  no  gentle- 
man présent  "  behaved  himself  "  more  quietly  or  decorous- 
ly  than  Mr.  Laurence  Thorndyke.  How  wonderfully  shé 
had  changedî'how  handsome  she  had  grownlthat  was 
the  burden  of  his  musings.  And  she  had  Ipved  h^m  once 
— ah,  yes — "not  wisely,  but  too  wéll."  They  say  first 
love  nevef  wholly  dies  out.  He  didn't  know  himself  ;  he 
had  had  so  many  first  loves — centuries  ago,  it  sfeemed  to 
him  now — they  c^rtainly  had  cTied  out,  wholly  and  entirely. 
But  with  Wom'en.  it  was  différent.  Had  she  quite  outgrown 
the  passion  of  her  youth  ?  And  if  it  were  not  for  Helen, 
who  could  tell — 

He  broke  off,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  and  joined  her. 
For  a  moment  she  was  alone,  in  a  curtained  recess,  wield- 
ing  her  fan  with  the  languid  grâce  of  a  Castilian,  and 
watching  the  dancers.  He  came  softly  from  behirid'  and 
bent  his  tall  head.        » 

"Norine!" 

If  she  had  been  stone-deaf  she  could  not  hâve  sat  more 
perfectly  still  and  unheeding. 

«  Norry  !  " 

No  motion — no  sign  that  she  heard  at  al^. 

"  Mr^.  Darcy  !" 

She  mgved  slowly  now,  turning  her  gracef  ul  shouldei 
and  lifting  the  brown,  tranquil  eyes  full  to  his  face. 

"  Did  you  address  yourself  to  me,  Mr.  Thorndyke  ?  " 

"  Norine,  there  is  no  one  to  hear  ;  for  pity's  sake  hâve 
done  with  this  farce.  Norine  !  Norine  !  as  though  1 
Rhould  not  know  you  anywhere,  under  any  name." 

"  Mr.  Thoradyke,"  Mrs.  Darcy  answered,  her  soft,  sweel 


*:'■'.    ^tr'^ 


no  p£ 
"I 

Darc 

mista 

dearl 

life! 

Th 

hâve 

was  M 

"F 

lighth 

•  -'•^'. 

■), 

•n 

.■/|(si 

*",' 

**WHOM  THE  GODS  WISH^'  ETC.         201 

roice  singularly  calm  and  cleâr,  "if  you  persist  in  this 
strange  (Jelusion  of  youts  I  sh^l  beforced  to  throv  my- 
self  upon  the  protection  of  Mr.  Allison.  As  the  disinherited 
nephew  of  the  late  Mr.  Darcy,  I  hâve  no  objection  tomake 
)'«ur  acquaintance  ;'  in  the  light  of  a  former  friend  I  utter-  ' 
ly  refuse  to  know  you.  I  am  Mrs.  Darcy.  If  you  insist 
«  upon  addressing  me  by  any  other  name  I  shall  refuse  to 
hear  or  answer."  '  ^ 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  tone  in  which^t  was  said. 
His  eyes  flashed  blue  fir^m 

"Take  carej"  he  sa"«even  you  may  go  too  farl 
What  if  I  tell  thè  world  Mrs.  Darcy's  past  ?  " 

The  dark,  disdainful  gaze  was  upon  him  still.      * 

"Is  that  a  threat,  Mr.  Thorndyke?  I  do  ^ôt  know 
you,  I  never  hâve  known  you.  If  you  say  that  I  hâve, 
I  am  prepared  to  deny  it,  at  ail  times,  and  in  ail  places.'" 
My  Word  will  carry  as  much  weight  as  yours,  Mr. 
Thorndyke.  ■  I  am  not  afraid  of  you,  and  if  this  is  to  hp  the 
manner  of  our  conversation,  I  décline  henceforth  holding 
anbther." 

She  arose  togo.  He  saw  he  had  made  a  mistake.  It  was 
no  part  of  his  désire  to  make  an  enemy  of  her. 

"Forgive  me,"  hé  said,  humbly— "  forgive    me,  Mrs. 
Darcy.      The  resemblance   is  very  striking;    but  I  am^ 
mistaken,  of  course.    You  remind  me  of  oriél  loved  very 
dearly  once— of  one  whose  loss  has  darkeiièd'  my  whole 
life  !    Forgive  me,  and  let  me  be  your  friend." 

The  scom  in  the  dark,  contemptuous  eyes  I— it  might 
hâve  blighted  him  ;  but  of  late  years  Laurence  Thorndyke 
was  well  used  to  scom. 

"Friend?"  she  said.     '' No  !  1  do   not  make  friends 

J'gA^^y-  ■^^jyy.gj^^<^^'  *^  ^q^  ^^^^^  ior  mc-  dh^^xi^  ^ai^^ 


^-r- 


'-<^' 
!■). 


_.i^.k  , 


'ù^^îâM^É^kéù^s.  ^.j^'^iiii'^  &,*.<  '.  i  ..^  jb!  ^  i  -u-^v  '^' , 


902 


NORJNE'S  REVENGEk 


^•for  the  sake  of  your  great  disappointment  pecuniarily 
I  am  willing  to  be  that." 

"Itwas  deserved,"  he  faltered/ his  eyes  averted.  "1 
hâve  repented — Heaven  knows  how  bitterly.  That  I  hâve 
lost  a  fprtune  through  my  own  misdeeds  is  the  least  of 
my  punishment." 

She  tumed  from  him,  sick^^sick  at  heart  with  thie  utter 
scorn  she  felt.  As  her  gaze  wandered  away,  it  fell  upon 
another  face — the  face  of  Richard  Gilbert  ! 

He  was  watching  them.  As  he  met  her  glance  he  bowed 
and  walked  a\yay.  A  flush  that  Laurence  Thorndyke  had 
natfor  a  second  called  there,  came  vividly  into  her  pale 
cheeks. 

"  And  for  this  craven — this  hypocrite,  I  fled  from  him 
—  spoilmg  my  own  life  and  his  forever.  Oh,  fool  ! 
fool  I  What  can  he  hâve  but  scorn  and  loathing  for  me 
now." 

She  arose  impatienlly.  Ail  at  once  the  présence  of 
Laurence  Thorndyke  had  grown  intolérable  to  her.  With- 
o<at  a  Word  of  excuse  she  bent  her  head  to  him  slightly 
and  frigidly  and  movëd  away. 

Mr.  Thorndyke  was  not  ofïended.  The  course  he  meant 
to  pursue  in  regard  to  Mrs.  Darcy  was  not  yet  quite  clear. 
This,  however,  was — he  would  not  let  her  easily  ofïend 
him.  His  friend  she  should  be.  Who  could  tell  what  the 
future  might  bring  forth  ?  With  ail  her  girl's  heart  and 
strength  she  had  loved  him  once.  A  fatuous  smile 
came  ôver  his  face  as  he  glanced  at  himself  in  the  mirror. 
Not  so  good-looking  as  of  yore,  certainly,  but  late  hours, 
hard  drinking,  and  the  fîerce  excitement  of  the  gaming- 
table  had  wrought  the  evil.  He  would  change  ail  that-* 
go  in  for  reform — total  amendment  of  life — try  sculpture. 


A^^. 


*'WHOAf  THE  GODS  IVISH»  ETC.         203 

wd  become  a  respectable  raémber  of  society.    Meantime 
he  would  see  ail  hs  could  of  Mrs.  Daroy. 

By  Jove  I  how  handsome  she  had  looked— what  thorough» 
bred  good  style  she  was  I  And  if— hidden  under  ail  this 
outward  coldness— the  old  love  still  lay,  how  easy  for  him 
to  fan  the  smoldering  embers  into  bright  fiâmes.  And 
then— ? 

A  vision  rose  before  him— Helen,  in  the  shabby  rooms 
at  home,  writing  far  into  the  night,  to  eam  the  bread  his 
children  ate.  Whilst  Helen  lived,  let  his  uncle's  heiress 
love  him  never  so  well,  what  eduld  it  avail  him  ?  "  There  is 
the  law  of  divorce,"  whispered  the  small  voice  of  the  temp- 
ter.  "  To  the  man  who  wills,  ail  things  are  possible.  Mr. 
Darcy's  fortune,  and  Mr.  Darcy's  heiress  may  be  yours  yet 
Vou  have'played  for  high  stakes  before  to-night,  Laurence, 
my  boy.  Play  your  cards  with  care  now,  and  you  hold 
the  winning  hand  ?  " 

Fromthat  night  a  change  began  in  Laurence  Thorndyke 
—began  on  the  spot.  Once  more,  that  night,  he  had 
spoken  to  Mrs.  Darcy— then  it  was  to  say  farewell. 

"  You  hâve  told  me  you  will  accept  me  as  an  acquaint- 
ance,"  he  said  very  quietly.  "  Life  has  gone  hardly  with 
me  of  late,  and  I  hâve  learned  to  be  thankful  even  for 
small  mercies.  For  what  you  hâve  promised  I  thank  you, 
and — ^will  not  easily  forget  it." 

She  bowed— gleams  oi  scorri  in  her  dark,  brilliant  eyes. 
So  they  had  parted,  and  very  grave  and  thoughtful  Mr. 
Thorndyke  went  home.  f      ■ 

The  change  began.  Less  drinking,  less  gambling,  better 
hours.  His  wife  looked  on  with  suspicions  eyes.  She 
had  reason  to  suspect.  When  Satan  turns  saint,  Satan'i 
relatives  hâve  cause  to  be  on  the  alert. 


;.,»■.  =.,..f . 


^ÈiMi^W^t    4SjA>        t-I    yi 


iH,^^'^^^h^r 


"^\ 


vt 


-^■^4^' 


204 


NORINEPS  RE  VENGE. 


Given  up  ga;ïibling  and  going  to  try  sculpture  !  Léon 
Saroni  has  given  you  the  run  of  Hi^  studies,  bas  he  ?  I  don't 
understand  ail  this,  Mr.  Thoradyke.  What  new  project 
hâve  you  in  youi  head  now ?" 

"  Going  to  tum  over  a  new  leaf,  Nellié.  Give  you  my 
Word  I  am,"  replies  Mr.  ^homdyke,  keeping  his  temper 
with  admirable  patience/^  "  Going  in  for  legitimate  indus- 
try  and  famé.  I  alwa^  felt  I  had  a  genius  for  sculpture. 
I  feel  it  now  m(j)re  than  ever.  Soon,  very  soon,  you  may 
'  thfpw  this  beastly  copying  to  the  dogs,  and  we  will  live  in 
comfort  once  more." 

The  wonder  and  incredulity  of  his  wife's  face,  as  sbe 
tumed  back  to  her  writing,  infuriated  him.  But  he  had 
his  own  reasons  for  standing  well,  even  with  her/ just  at 
présent. 

"  Nellie,"  he|  said,  and  he  stooped  to  kiss  her,  "  l've 
been  a  brute  f(i  you,  I  know,  but — ^you  care  a  little  for  me 
still!"       '" 

Her  face  flushed,  as  a  girl's  might  under  her  lover's  first 
caress.  Then^she  covered  it  with  her  hands  and  broke 
into  a  passion'  of  tears. 

He  soothed  her  with  caressés^ 

"It  will  be  différent  now,"  he  said.  "Forgive  the 
pas^  Nellie,  if  you  can.  I  swear  to  do  better  in  the 
future." 

Forgive  I  What  is  there  that  a  wife  who  loves  wiU  not 
forgive?  On  her  wedding-day  Helen  Thomdyke  had 
hardly  been  more  blessed.  With  a  glow  on  her  cheeks  and 
a  light  in  her  eyes,  strangers  there  for  many  a  day,  she 
went  back  to  her  drudgery.  And  smiling  a  little  to  him* 
self,  as  he  lit  his  cigar  andsauntered  to  his  friend  Saroui't 
studio,  Mr.  Thorndyke  muséd  ; ,  


f 


i 


ETC 


^WHOM  THE  GODS  WISH-  x^jci         ont 

"  The/re  ail  alikiÉ-all  !  Ready  to  forgive  Zan  seven- 
ly  times  seven,  let  bim  do  as  he  may.  Ready  tdvgell  them- 
selves  body  and  soûl  for  a  kiss  I  And  wbat  b  true  o/ 
Helen  sball  be  true  of  Norine."     ' 

So  Mr  Thomdyke  set  to„work,  and  with  untiring  ener^y 
be  it  said.  «  Deserted,"  he  meant^o  call  this  production 
of  gpnius.  It  should  tell  its  own  story  to  ail.  The  white 
marble  face  woujd  look  up,  ail  wrought  and  strained  in  its' 
mortal  anguish.  The  locked  hands,  the  writhing  figure, 
ail  should  tell  of  woman's  woe.  The  face  he  had  in  his 
bram-as  he  had  seen  it  last  down  there  in  the  light  of  the 
summer  noon.  Ail  was  at  stake  hère— he  must  not-he 
would  not  fail. 

Andwhile  Mr.  Thomdyke  chiselled  marble,  Mrs.  Thorn- 
dyke  copied  her  law  papers.     She  had  met  Mrs.  Darcy 
more  than  once  in  Mr.  Gilbert's  office,  and  Mr.  Darcy's 
proposai  had  been  laid  before  her.    Her  eyes  had  kindled 
her  face  flushed  as  she  refused.  ' 

"Leavemyhusband?  Neverl  Whatever  his  errors  he 
loves  me  at  least— bas  always  been  true  to  me.  Ail  other 
things  I  can  forgive,  Mr.  Darcy  meant  kindJy,  no  doubt 
-so  do  you,  madame,  but  I  refuse  your  oflFer,  now  and 
forever.    I  will  not  leave  my  husband." 

The  grav^ly  beautiful  eyes  of  Mrs.  Darcy  had  looked  at 
ner  compassionately. 

"  Loves  you  !  »  she  thought-"  always  been  true  to  you. 
Popr  httle  fool  I  "  ^     '. 

For  sheknewbetter.    She  and  Mr.  Thomdyke  met  often. 
Nowthathe  had  «gone  in  for"  respectability  and  hard 
«rork,  old  friends  came  back,  old  doôrs  flew  open,  society 
acceptedhimagain.    He  was  ever  an  acquisition,  brilliant 
^^mmyJ|^M9m^^X.^;^^x^^  i^  His  ^^^g  never^ 


:■!*£■ 


»  » 


>«l 


I  ' 


206 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE.' 


appeared.  Truth  to  tell,  Mrs.  Thorndyke  had  nothltig  to 
wear.  Mr.  f  homdyke  in  some  way  rejuveriated  his.  ward: 
robe,  and  rose,  |lorious  as  the  Phœnix,  from  thé  ashes  of 
the  shabby  past.  They  met  often,  and  if  passionate 
admiration— passionate  love,  ever  looked  out  of  man's 
eyes,  it  looked  out  of  his  now,  when  they  rested  on 

Norine. 

It  was  part  of  his  punishmént,  perhaps,  that  the  woman 
he  had  betrayed  and  cast  off  should-  inspire  him  with  the 
one  suprême  passion  of  his  life. 

She  saw  it  ail,  and  smiled,  well  content.  She  was  net 
perfect,  by  any  means.  Revenge  she  had  bound  herself  tu 
hâve.  If  revenge  came  in  this  shape — so  let  it  corne. 
Every  pang  he  had  made  her  sufïer  he  should  feel— as  she 
had  been  scorned,  so  she  would  scorn  him.  For  Mrs. 
Thorndyke— well,  was  it  not  for  Mrs.  Thorndyke  she  had 
been  forsaken.     She  was  his  wife,  at  least— let  his  wife 

look  to  herself. 

They  met  constantly.  As  yet  he  had  never  offended  in 
words.  They  were  friends.  She  was  interested  in  his 
"  Deserted  " — she  visited  it  in  company  with  some  acquaint- 
ances  at  the  studio.  She  had  praised  it  highly.  If  she 
recalled  the  resemblance  to  herself,  in  that  day  past  and 
gone,  no  word  nor  look  betrayed  it. 

"  It  will  be  a  success,  I  am  sure,"  she  had  said  ;  "  it  is 
so  true  to  life,  that  it  is  almost  painful  to  look  at  it." 

Then  he  had  spoken— in  onequick,  passionate  whisper. 

"  Norine — ^forgive  me  1  " 
V   The  dark  eyes  looked  at  him,  not  proudly,  nor  cçldly, 
'  nor  angrily  now — ^then  fell. 

His  whole  face  flushed  with  rapture. 

«i^  ba^  «omething;  te^  say  to  y^m^  Yo"  Mg  Mygr  II 


"WHOM   THE 


GODS  WISHj''  ETC. 


20^ 


Nonne,  I  implore  you  I  let  me  see  you 


home  wAen  I  call. 
alone — once," 

Over  her  face  there  came  a  sudden  change— her  lipsset 
her  eyes  gleamed.  What  it  meant  he  could  not  tell.  He 
interpreted  it  to  suit  his  hopes.    t 

«I  ^vill  see  you,"she  said,  slowly.  «When  will  you 
corne?" 

"  A  thousand  thanfes.     This  evening  if  I  may." 
She  bent  her  head  and  turned  from  him.  ' 
"  Whom  the  gods  wish  to  destroy  they  first  make  mad/' 
she  thought.     «  I  know  as  well  as  you  dg/BTrf^Thorndyke, 
what  you  are  coming  to  sayto-night,  and— l'shall  not  be 
the  only  listener." 

He  leaned  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy  against  his  own  work 
At  last!  she  would  see  him— she  would  hear  how  he  had 
repented,  how  he  worshipped  her,  how  the  only  hope  that 
Wfe  held  for  him,  wasthe  one  hope  of  winning  back  her 
love.  Of  Helen  he  never  thought— never  once.  It  seemed 
»o  easy  a  thing  to  put  her  away.  Incompatibility  of  temper 
— anything  would  do.  And  she  had  the  pride  of  Lucifer. 
She  would  never  lift  a  finger  to  retard  the  divorce. 


■■^..      1 


-■* 


'lÊi.Sà^Mfkiitiiè^Êit.:.,,  ■■ 


15» -^Î-V-  ^ 

*<lfK\^^^^ 

4i^èé 

Myfeà^^ 

CHAPTER  XX.- 
norine's    RTEVENGE. 

Y  DEAR.MRS.  THORNDYKE :— Will  yon 
corne  and  spend  theevening  with  me?  Fetch 
the  little  people.     I  shall  be  quite  alone. 

"  Jane  Liston  Darcy." 

lUfivas  not  the  first  time  such  notes  had  corne  to  the 
tenement  house — not  the  first  time  they  had  been  accepted. 
Laurence  was  always  away.  The  late  hours  had  begun 
again.  The  evenings  at  horne  were  so  dreary.  It  was  a 
glimpse  of  the  old  glad  life,  before  poverty  and  hard  work 
hâd  ground  her  down.  Yes,  she  would  go. 
j  Mrs.  Darcy,  very  sîmply,  blit  very  prettil^»  dressed,  wel- 
comed  her.  ^aby  Nellie  she  took  ih  her  arms  and  kissed 
fondly,  but  little  Laurie,  with  his  father's  bold,  blue  eyes 
andtrick  of  face,  she  shrank  from.  The  father  she  could 
face  unmoved  ;  the  old  pain  actually  came  back  when  she 
looked  at  the  child. 

As  they  sat,  a  pretty  group  in  the  gas-light,  a  card  was 
brought  in.  Mrs.  Darcy  put  the  baby  off  her  lap  and 
passed  the  card  to  Helen. 

"  Your  husband,"  she  said.  "  He  begged  for  this  inter- 
view, and — I  hâve  granted  it.  But  I  wished  you  to  be 
présent.  Whether  I  do  right  or  wrong,  you  shall  hear  what 
he  has  to  say  to  me.  You  love  and  trust  him  still.  You 
shall  hear  how  ^rthy  he  isof  it.  But  first — ^have  you  evei 
heard  the  name  of  Norine  Bourdon  ?  " 


^  JV  làf^t'    \.  ''*^*  , 


W''- 


NORINE'S  HEVENGE.  ^_ 

2og 

"  Narine  Bourdon  1  the  girl  whom  Laurence—" 

"  l^'',^yf  by  a  false   marriage-for  ^hom  he    was 
disinhented.     I  am  she." 

"You!"     Helen  Thorndyke  recoiled. 
S  ^/7'^°""^  ^"^don,  not  Jane  Liston,  Mr.  Parcy 
dopted     Hâve  you  not  then  the  right  to  hear  what  youî 
lusband  has  to  say  to  me?    But  it  shall  be  as  yoa  wish." 
„;;i;^^;^  hea,"   Helen   answered,   al.^^^ 

Norine  threw  open  a  door.  "'^ 

"Wait  in  this  room..  I  will  leave  the  dooç  ajar.  My 
maid^shall  take  the  chiidren.  And  be  sure  of  this-l-neither 
by  Word  nor  look  shall  I  tempt  your  husband  to  say  one 
Word  more  than  he  has  corne  to  say  to-night." 
.Helen  Thorndyke passed  into  the  inner  rôom.  Norine 
Darcy  rang  for  the  servaht  waiting  without. 
"  Show  Mr.  Thorndyke  up." 

He  came,  bounding  lightly  and  eagerly  up  the  stairs 
and  entered  She  arose  from  her  seTt  to'meet  hfm  S 
full  evenmg  dress,  his  facë^lightly  flushed,  his  blue  eyes  ail  . 

t  r  .  ^T?^'"'  ^'  ^"^  "^"^^  P^^b-P^'  in  the  days  ^ 
when  she  had  adored  him,  lookéd  so  handsome  as  now.       ■ 

She  smiled  a  little  to  herself  as  she  recalled  that  ' 
infatuation  ;  how  long  ago  it  seemed.     And  for  this  good-  ' 
lookmg,  well-dressed,Jieartless  libertine,  she  had  gone 
neartothégatesofdeath.  ■ 

"Norine!" 

He  clasped  the  smallhand,  shining  with  diamonds,  that 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Thorndyke.    Will  you  be  seated 
Qmte  chilly  for  September.  is  i?q|>t,to-night?» 


^^î; 


^ 


*i 


4^ 


210 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 


She  sank  gracefully  back  into  her  easy-chair,  flie  gas 
light  streaming  over  her  dusk,  Catiadian   loveHness.     Slie  • 
inade  aiveffort  to  disengage'4ier4iand,  which  he  still  h#ld 
fast,  but  he  refused  to  let  it  go. 

"No,  Norine  I  let  me  keep  it.  Oh,  love,  remember  it 
was  once  ail*  mine.  Norine  !  Norine  j  on  my  knees  I  im- 
plore yoilr  forgiveness  for  the  past  !  "  . 

He  actually  sank  on  one  knee  before  her,  covering  the 
hand  he  held  with  passionate  kisses.  No  actin'g  hère; 
that  was  plain,  at  least.  The  infatuated  man  meant  every 
Word  he  said. 

"  Forgive  me,  Norine  !  I  know  that  I  hâve  sinned  to  you 
beyond  ail  pardon,  but  if  you  knew  how  I  hâve  suffâ-ed, 
how  the  memory  of  my  crime  has  made  my  whole  life  mis- 
érable,, how,  to  drown  the  torture  of  memory,  I  fled  to  the 
wine-Cup  and  the  gambling-table,  and  to — " 

"Marriage  with  Miss  Helen  Holmes,  heiress  and 
belle.  Oh,  I  knaw  it  ail,  Mr.  Thorndyke.  Pray  get 
up.  Gentlemen  never  go  on  their  knees  nowadays 
except  in  melodrama.  Get  up  Mr.  Thorndyke  ;  let  go 
my  hanjl  and  sit  down  like  a  rational  being.  I  insist 
upon'it." 

"  A  rational  being  !  "  he  repeated.  "  I  hâve  ceased  to 
be  that  since  your  retum.  It  is  my  madness,  Norine,  to 
love  you  as  I  never  lôved  any  women  before  in  my  life." 

She  laughed,  toying  with  the  fan  she  held. 

"  My  dear  Mr.v  Thorndyke,  I  remember  perfectly  well 
what  an  absolute  fool  I  was  in  the  days  of  our  acquaint- 
anceship  four  years  ago.  Even  such  a  statement  as  that 
might  hâve  been  swallowed  whole.  But  it  «"Jour  years 
agOj  and — ^you  will  pardon  me — I  know  what  brilliant  tal- 
ent Laurence  Thorndyke  has  for  graçeful  fiction.    To  how 


^  \  ^i  -»  Jk*" 


V      ^  --•     ..*•'       ^^2^h.^^\     'X^li-»  \    ..        • 


î 


/ 


NORINBS  REVENGE.  JH 

many  ladies  inX^e^jcourse  of  hjs  thirty  years  of  life  haa 
he  niade  that  ardent^^laration,  I  wonder?  " 

"  You  do  not  believe  me  ?  'r  . 

v"Idonot."  (       (,  ^ 

"  Nonne,  I  swear— "  - 

^' Hush-h-h  1  pray  don't  pérjure  yourself.     Was  it  to  le  11      ^ 
me  this  you  came  hère  this  evening,  Mi*.  Thorndyke  ?  " 

^'To  tell  you,  Norine,  whàt  I  am  sure  you  do  not  know. 
What  I  never  knew  myself  until  ofe  late,  that  you  ^ nd  you, 
alone    hâve  ^j^èr'beea   my    wife;    that    oiuf  marri  âge 
was  a  marriage,  légal  and  true— that  yfeu,  not^Helen,.  are  . 
my  lawful  wifeT-^o  tell  you  this  and  much  more,  i^ou.:  * 
will  listen.     From  my  soûl  I  hâve  repented  of  the  past; 
hoi|ir  bitterly,  norte  may  know.     I  left  you^-great  Heaven  I 
Isit  and  wonder  at  my  own  madnéss  now;  and  ail  Ih^        .  / 

I     timel  lovedyou  as  I  never  loved  anyone  else.   I  maïfied 
Helen  HolmesT— yes,  I  cannot  deny  it,  but  what  wâs  I  to  daf 
I  was  boun4  to  her,  she  loved  me,  'my  honor  rooted  in 
dishonorxcstood,'  and  I  married  ^îer.      Theœ  is  horrible 
fatality  in  thèse  things.  While  I  knelt  before  the  altar  pledg- 
ing  myself  to  her,  my  whole  heart  was  back  with  you.     I 
m\\  own  it— despise  me  more  than  you  dc^already,  if  that 
,      be possible— I  maïried h«>rforier wedâing  dower,  and  be- 
càyse  I  dared  not  oflFend  Mr,   Darcy.     Wealth  so  won 
côuld  bring  little  happiness.    I  fled  from  '  hçme  and  her 
présence  to  drown  remorse  ancj^the  memory  of  my  lost 
love  in  drink.      So    poverty  came.      I  was    reckless. 
Whether  you  lived  or  died  I  did  not  know,  I  dared  not 
ask  —  fn  abandoning  you  I  had  spciled  my  whole  life. 
Then  suddenly  yô\i  reappeared,  beautiful  as  a  dream,  sa 
far  off,  so  cold,  so  unapproachable— you  my  love  1  my  love  I 
once  my  very  own^  Xou  held  me  at  ann's-length^ypi' 


• 


t, 


212 


AO/i//VE'S  RB:  VENGE, 


.%-', 


% 


refused  to  listen  to  a  word,  and  ail  the'time  my  heart 
was  on  .fire  wit^in  me.  To-night  I  havé  corne  to  spea|^ 
at  last.  Norine,  I  hâve  sinned,  I  hâve  suffered,  I  hâve 
repented,  »  What  more  can  I  say  ?  I  love  you  madly,  I 
always  loved  you.  Say  you  forgive  me,  or  I  will  never 
rise  from  your  feet  1" 

Once  more  he  cast  himself  before  her,  real  passion,  its 
utmost  abandonment,  in  every  tonè.    She  had  »et  hjjm-r^ 
on,  never.  moving,  her  cold  eyes  fixed  upon'  him,  fi  '^ 
hard,  contemptuous  fire. 

"  You  mean  al)  this,  Mr.  Thorndyke  ?  Yes,  I  see  you  do. 
And  ypu  love  me—you  always  loved  me,  everx  when  you 
cast  me  ofï  and  marrièd  Miss-'llShnes,  really  and  truly  ?  " 

"  Really  and  truly  I  X  swear  it,|Norine  ?  " 

**  No— don't  swear,  please— jit'sHagainst  my  principies 
to  encourage  profani'ty.  But  isn't  it  rather  late  in  the  day 
.to  tell  me  ail  thisli^hate  is  y^ur  wife — you  don't  care  for 
her,of  course,  bù¥stilï  you ^ee  She  *>, your  wife,  in  the  eye 
of  the  world  atlèast  And*à  gentlemàn's  wife  is  rather  an 
obstacle  when  that  gentleman  makes  love  to  another  lady." 

The  fine  ironyof  her  tone  he  did  not  hear— the  "^cprn  of 
her  eyes  he  did  not  see.  The  "madness  of  the  gdds\"  was 
Upon  him — ^blind  ànd  deaf  he  was  going  to  his  doomi 

"  An  obstacle,  but  an  obstacle  èasily  set\asidè.  In  any 
c?ise  I  mean  to  hâve  a  divorce.     I  never  oared  for  her- 


Ûiere  are  tfmes  whçn  I  loathe  her 
permission  to  mamr  again  I  shall 
rine — "  ,  "^ 

He  moved  as  though  to  clasp  herT^ 
horror  and  repulsion  she  waved  him  Sî£&k. 
was  blind. 
,  "  And  your  children,  Mr.  Thomdyk6  ?' 


divorce,  with 
then. 


». 


a  shudderof 
And  still  he 


NORINË'S   REVËNGE. 


/ 


^  213 

"  That  shall  be  as  Helen  wishes.     I  don't.care  for  them 

.— never  cared  foi .  children.      Shè  may  keep  them  if  she 

^    wishes.     If  I  had  Ibved  herxt  would  be  easy  to  love-  hçr 

^d^"^'     ^°"  consent  then,  Norine  ?    It  is  as  I  hoped. 

?.^^®gfï'^°''^'^^  ^'^^  P^^**     ^^"  ^^"  ^&^'"  be  my  wife.     Oh, 
^,  iWping  !  my  whole  life  shall  be  spônt  in  the  e|ort  to  blot 
eut  the  past  and  make  you  entirely  happy.     You  love  me 
Btill — say  it,  Norine+"  ^^ 

He  clasped  both  hç(  hands  vehementlv.     She  afose  to 

answer.    Before  the  words  6f  passionate  scorn  on  her  lips 

could  be  spoken  the  inner/doof  opened  and  Helen  Thorn- 

dyke  stogd  on  the  threshold. ,  /  '  "    '  , 

"  Great  Heave<n>r  Helen  1"  '  ,      ' 

He  dropped  Norine's  hands  and  staggered  back.     For 

'a  moment  be^almost  thought  it  her  ghpst,  so  white,  so 

ghastly  with  concentrated  passion  was  she.     She  advanced, 

-she  tried  to  speak— at  first  the  words  died  huskfly  away 

upon  her  dry  lips.  . 

"I  hâve  hearc^every  Word,"  shepanted.  "  Youcoward  1 
You  basest  6f  ail  base  cowards.  Though  I  live  fora  hun- 
dred  years,  thèse  are  the  last  words  I  shaH  ever  speak  to 
you.  Living  or  dying  I  will  never  'îorgive  you— living^  ôr 
dying  I  will  never  look  upon  your  face  again  1  Norinç  I  " 
,  .She  tHrned  to  h^  ^ddenly  : 

"  You  ofifered  me  a  home  and  a  compétence  once,  apart 
from  him.  For  his  sake  I  refused  it  then— for  my  children'is 
^ake  I  askit  now.    I  have^po  hope  left  but  in  you^nd— 
^aven." 

srheadfell  on  Norine's  shoiilder  with  one  dry,  hard 
sob,  artdthere  lay.^^  Norine  Darcy  drew  her  to  her  side,  her  / 
arm  clasW.  her  closely,  and  so— faced  Laurence  Thorn 


^ 


■n 


^ 


...-:?:,.■ 


214 


,     NORIJVE'S  RE  VENGE. 


»  "  *  Every  dog  has  his  day*.  It  is  not  a  very  élégant  adage, 
but  it  is  a  true  one.  Your  day  has  been,  Mr.  Thorndyke— 
mine  has  come.  For  it  I  hâve  hoped,  and  worked,  for  it  I 
hâve  let  you  go  on — fof'  it  I  hâve  listened  to  the  ^ords  ycu 
hâve  spoken  to-night — for  it  I  concealed  your  wife  yonder, 
that  she  might  hear  too.  You  love  me,  you  say — I  am  glad 
to  believe  it— rsince  a  little  of  the  torture  you  once  made  me 
feel  you  shall  feel  in  return.  For  myself  ail  memory  of  the 
past  is  gone.  You  are  so  utterly  indiffèrent  to  me,  so  ut- 
terly  contemptible  in  my  sight,  that  I  havé  not  even  hatréd 
to  give  you.  To  mê  you  are  simply  nothing.  After  this 
hour  I  will  neyersee  you,  never  speaïc  to  ybu.  For  your 
wife  and  children  I  will  provide.  You  did  your  best  to  ruin 
me,  soûl  and  body,  because  you  hated  Richard  Gilbert.  I 
take  fnwn  you  wife  and  children,  and  what  you  value  far 
more — fortune.  I  think  we  are  quits,  and  as  there  is  no 
more  to  be  said,  I  will  bid  you  good-night.  Liston  !  show 
this  gentleman  to  the  door,  and  admit  him  hère  no  more^." 

Then  Mr.  Liston,  pale  of  face,  soft  of  step,  furtive  of 
glance,  appeared  on  the  scène.  Still  clasping  the  droOping 
form  of  the  outraged  wife,  Norine  moved  towards  the  inner 
room. 

Thorndyke  had  stood  quite  still,  his  arms  folded,  listen- 
ing  to  ail.  The  game  was  up  !  A  devil  of  fury,  of  disappoint- 
ment,  would  possess  hîm  by-and-by — ^just  now  he  only  felt 
half-stunned.    -He  tumed  to  the.doôr,  with  a  harsh  laugh. 

"  I  hâve  heard  of  men  who  murdered  the  women  they 
loved,  and  wondered  at  them.  I  wonder  no  longer.  By 
Heaven,  if  I  had  a  pistol  to-night  you  would  never  leave 
this  room  alive,  Norine  Bourdon  I  "  ; 


'•»      .,»! 


.r 


CHAPTER  XXI.       . 

"THE   MILLS  OF  THE  GODS  GRIND  SLOWLV,  BUT  ^HEV  GRIND 
EXCEEDINGLY  SMALL." 

T  the  drawing-room  window  of  the  late  Huirh' 
Darcy^   old-fashioned   house,    Hugh   Darçy's 
heiress  sits.     It  is  a  dreary  November  day,  a 
.fr..t.    fU    T^'  '^'«entable  blast  soughs  through  the  city 
freets--the  two  vestal  poplars  toss  their  green  arms  wildly 
aloft  m  the  gale,  and  the  sleety  rain  goes  swirling  before  it 
Atall  times  a  qu.et  street,  it  is  entirely  forsaken  to-day. 
Far  off  cornes  the  clatter  and  jangle  of  passing  street-cars 
the  duir  roar  of  the  city's  ceaseless  life.     In  this  by-stree; 
peace  reigns.  ^  ^ 

J'^^^r'T  "''"^  '^'  ^^"^"^  ^^^^"S  steadfastly  out  at 
thewet  leaden,  melancholy  afternoon.  In  her  lap  some 
pièce  of  flimsy  féminine  handicraft  lies-on  the  table  be- 
fore her  are  strewn  new  books  and  uncut  magazines.  But 
she  neuher  embroiders  nor  reads-she  lies  back  agains 
th  cnmson  velvet  of  the  old  chair  looking  handsom!  and 
stless,  her  dark,  thoughtful  eyes,  gazing  aimlessly  at  the 
lashmgram  Now  and  then  they  turn  from  the  picture 
without  to  the  picture  within,  and  she  sighs  softly 

A  bnght  fire  burns  in  the  steel  grate  and  lights'  ruddily 
the  cnmson-draped  room.  On  a^ofa  drawn  up  before  it 
m  anest  of  pillows,  Helen  Thomdyke  lies  sostHl,  sowhite  " 
ou  m.ght  thjnk  her  dead.  But  she  is  not  ev;n  asle  p,' 
aUhough  she  l,es  molionless  with  closed  eyes.  Her  life 
seems  to  hâve  corne  to  an  end.     Pride  .h.  h,,  .^^  it  hn. 


Ï.W.  y 


2l6 


Ay/^JVE'S  RE  VENGE. 


__^,. 


upheld  her,  but  love  she  has  |;oo,  and  pride  cannol  quite 
crush  it  out.-  ♦  Since  thit  fatal  September  night  she  has 
been  hère — since  that  night  his  name  has  neverpassed  hei 
lips  ;  thèse  two  women,  whose  lives  Laurence  Thorndykc 
has  njarred,%ever  talk  of  him.  She  lies  hère  and  broods, 
broods,  broods  ever — of  the  d*yf  that  are  gone  and  can 
ne  ver  corne  again. 

On  the  floor  near,  little  Laurie  is  building  a  house  of 
blocks,  and  squat  in  the  centre  of  a  wool  rug  baby  Nellie 
crows  delightedly  and  watches  the  progress  of  the  archi- 
tect.  So  the  minutes  tick  off,  and  it  is  an  hour  sinj  ' 
Norine  has  ente:  ?d  the  room. 

In  the  librar>-,  bpfore  her  entrance  hère,  she  has  hUdt-^p  '" 
interview  with  Richard  Gilbert — it  is  of  that  interview  and 
ofhinfshe  sits  thinking  now.  Some  business  connected 
with  Mr.  Darcy's  estate  has  brought  him,  and  she  has 
asked  him,  constrainedly  enough,  for  news  of  Laurence 
Thorndyke. 

"  I  keep  Liston  on  his  track,"  she  said,  playing  nervous- 
ly  with  her  watch  chain.  "  Helen  says  little,  but  she  suf- 
fers  always.     And  Liston's  news  is  of  the  dreariest." 

The  strong,  gray  eyes  of  the  lawyer  had  lifted  sternly  to 
her  face.  No  word  of  censure  had  ever  escaped  his  lips — 
what  right  had  he  ?  but  Norine  felt  the  steady  rebuke  of 
that  firm,  cold  glance.  He  knew  ail,  and  she  felt  hê  must 
utterly  despise  her  now. 

•'  He  has  fallen  very  low,"  Mr.  Gilbert  answered,  briefly, 
"  80  low  that  it  is  hardly  possible  for  him  to  fall  much  low 
Cf.  In  losing  his  wife  and  children  he  lost  his  last  hold 
on  respectability,  his  one  last  hope  on  earth." 

*■  He  deserved  to  lose  them,"  Norine  said,  with  a  flash 
of  her  black  eyes. .,,.'' 


.,.v^..,. 


«77/£  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS,"   ETC.        217 

«Perhaps  so.  From  ail  I  hear  you  should  know  best. 
But  if  stem  justice  is  to  be  meted  to  us  ail,  after  your 
merciless  fashioni  then  Heaven  help  us  !  If  vengeance  can 
gratify  you,  Mrs.  ÏDa^cy,  you  may  rest  well  content.  He 
has  sunk  as  low  aâ  his  worst  enemy  could  wish  But— 
yim  might  bave  sp^reà,  Helen.» 

Cold,  cutting,  tbe  words  of  rebuke  fell.-^e  arose 
gathenng  up  bis  papers,  bis  face  set  and  stern.  Her 
face  droope^-she  cOvered  it  with  ber  band,  and  turned 
away.*'     '|^" 

"  She  at  least  iiad  never  Wonged  you,"  Ricbard  Gilbert 
pitile^y  went  on.     «  Hav^  you  made  ber  any  bappier, 
Mrs.  Darcy,  by  taking  ber  Husband  from  ber?    In  spite 
of  bis  myriad  faults  sbe  love^  bim-sbe  trusted  bim,  and 
so,  neitber  poverty,  bard  worfc,  nor  neglect  could  make 
ber  altogetber  misérable.     You  led  bim  on-led  bim  on 
from  the  first,  in  cold  blood,  working  for  your  revenge. 
And  wben  you  bad  crazed  bis  brain  by  your  smiles  and 
fair  words,  and  allurements,  you  brougbt  bis  wife  bere  to 
overhear  tbe  passion  you  bad  labored  to  inspire.    You 
madden  ber  in  turn,  you  take  ber  from  bim,  you  order 
him  from  your  présence  like  a  dog.     You  took  from  bim 
the  one  good  angel  of  bis  life^bis  wife-and  gave  bim  up 
boldly  to  the  devil.      He  bas  earned  it  ail,  you  bave  your 
revenge,  but-as  I  stand  and  look  at  you  bere,  I  wondet 
—1  wonder  \iyou  can  be  Norine  Bourdon.» 

A  dry  sob  was  ber  answer.  He  bad  poured  fortb  the 
words,  passionate  reproach  in  bis  voice,  passionate  anger 
10  his  eyes.  And  sbe  bad  sbrank  away  before  bis  jUst  wrath 
like  a  guilty  thing.  ■•  " 

"His  home  is  a  gambler's  hdl-bis   food  and  dtink 
J^ *^ JlJ!^ fire^ed  whiskey ^4ii^.issQdate^ aie th»= 

xa  ' 


m 


so 


2l8 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 


scum  and  refuse  of  the  city.  Mrs.  Darcy,  I  wish  you  joy 
of  your  work  !  "  ^ 

"  Spare  me,"  she  faltered. 

Mr.  Gilbert  looked  silently  for  a  moment  at  the  bowed 
figure,  then  took  his  hat  and  tumed  to  go. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  very  qùietly.  "  I  had  no 
right  to  speak  at  ail.  My  only  excuse  is,  that  I  wiU  net 
so  offend  again.     How  is  Helen ?" 

"  As  she'  always  is.  She  says  nothing  ;  she  lies  and 
suffers  in  silence.     Will  you  not  see  her  ?  " 

"  Not  to-day  ;  it  is  painful  to  me  ;  I  can  see  it  is  painful 
to  her,  poor  child.     Good-afternoon,  madam." 

He  bowed  wîth  formai  coldness  and  was  gone.  So  !  she 
had  had  her  revenge,  but  was  the  "gameworth  the  candie" 
after  ail  ?  Is  revenge  ever  worth  it»*€Ost,  she  began  to 
wonder. 

"  Vengeance  is  mine,  I  will  repay."  Yes,  yes,  she  was 
Deginning  to  see  it  ail?  And — Christianity :  apart — re- 
venge, as  we  wreak  it,  after  our  poor  light,  is  so  apt  to 
recoil  on  ourselves.  "  1 

So,  Norine  sits  by  the  window  now,  thinking  over  this 
pleasant  interview  and  "  chewWf^  the  cud  of  sweet  and 
bitter  fancies."  (  Much  more  bitter  than  sweet.  Until  she 
had  lost  Richard  Gilbert's  good  opinion  utterly,  she  had 
never  known  how  she  prized  it. 

Presently  glancing  back  from  the  darkening  day  with- 
out,  at  some  lustier  shout  than  usual  of  Master  Laurie^ 
she  finds  Helen's  large,  mournful  eyes  fixed  upon  her. 
She  rises,  crosses  over,  kneels  down  by  the  sofa,  and  kissea 
tenderly  tlie  wan  cheek. 

"  My  àfe»^"  she  says,  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  I»—,"  8h%  falters,  "  is  there  any  news  of  him  f  " 


/ 


-«*. 


''THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS,»  ETC.       219 

"  No  hews-only  the  old  story.  NelHe  1  Nellie  !  I  begin 
to  think  I  hâve  done  grievously  wrong." 
"  How,  Norine  ?" 

"  By  bringing  you  hère  that  night.     I  hâve  been  sinncd 
against,  but  I  hâve  also  beén  sinning.     I  had  taken  the" 
fortune  he  prized  so  highly;  I  should  hâve  been  content 
vvith  that.     Butiwas  not.     When  I  returned  there  was 
no  thought  of  him  in  my  mind,  except  the  hope  that  we 
niightnever  meet.     We  did  meet,  and  wl^en  I  saw  his 
growing  admiration  for  myself,  I— Nellie,  forgive  me  if 
you  can— I  ///ûT  encourage  it.  I  wonder  at  my  own  wicked- 
ness  now  ;  I  am   sorry,  sorry,  sorry.     I   know   I   should 
never  hâve  brought  you  hère  that  night.     Badly  as  he 
treated  you,  you  were  happiër  with  him  than  you  are  now. 
And  I  parted  you.     Nellie,  forgive  me  !  " 

Something  that  was  almost  color  flushed  intô  the  pale 
face— something  that  was  almost  light  into  the  blue  eyes. 
The  soft  lip5  set  themselves  firmly. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive.  I  thank  you  for  having 
brought  me  hère  that  night.  Sooner  or  later  I  would  hâve 
knovvn  ail.  And  I  was  not  his  wife  he  said— you  were— 
not  I.  «In  any  case,  I  will  hâve 'a . divorce.'  Hâve 
you  forgotten  those  words  ?  '  I  never  cared  for  her— I  loathe 
her  now— I  married  her  for  her  dowef.'  Hâve  you  for- 
gotten thati  Ôe  deserved  ail.  I  don't  blâme  you.  We 
are  only  human,  and  I  say  again  I  am  glad  I  know.  I  suf- 
fer,  but  no  blâme  attaches  to  you  for  that  suffering.  He 
was  treading  the  down-hill  road  before  you  came  ;  he  is 
only  finfehing  the  journey  as  it  would  hâve  been  finished 
in  any  case.  I  hâte  myself  for  my  own  misery.  I  hâte  g 
myself  that  I  cannot  tear  every  thought  of  him  out  of  mv 


220 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 


She  broke  down  suddenly,  violently»  passiôq^tely  almost, 
for  the  Arst  time,  into  wild,  hysterical  weeping.  Norine 
took  hêr  in  her  arms,  her  own  tears  falling,  and  let  her  sob 
her  sorrowout.  The  paroxysm  was  brief  as  it  was  stormy. 
She  drew  herself  away  suddenly,  and  bùried  her  face, 
among'the  pillows. 

"  Don't  mind  me,  please,",  she  said  ;  "  don't  talk  to  me. 
I  am  ashamed  of  my  own  weakness,  but — ■" 

Norine  kissed  her  very  tenderly. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  cry,  Nellie— ànything  is  better 
'   than  this  dry,  stony  grief.     I  will  take  the  babies  down  to 
.  «upper,  and  send  you  up  yours.      And  Nellie,  dear,  you 
must  eat  it  ;  remember  we  stârt  on  a  journey  to-morrow." 

The  journey  was  to  Kent  Hill,  where  they  were  tp  stay 
over  Christmas  and  New  Year.  Norine  had  made  one. 
flying  visit  already— had  been  clasped  in  Aunt  Hetty's  ' 
arms,  had  kissed  Uncle  Reuben's  sunburnt  cheek,  had 
hoard  Uncle  Joe's  husl^y  '*  Right  glad  to  see  you  back, 
Nprry,"  and— that  Was  ail.  She  took  the  old  place,  and, 
after  one  twlHght  talk,  the  past  was  never  referred  to. 
Trvtbiully  and  simply  she  told  them  ail,  not  even  except- 
ing  the  darkest  part— her  own  revenge  bitterly  repented  of 
when  too  late.  Now  she  and  Helen  and  the  children  were 
going  down  for  a  I6ng  visit.  '  One  other  guest  there  was 
to  be — one  who  had  spent  every  Christmas  at  Kent  Hill 
during  the  past  four  years — Mr.  Gilbert. 

"  Christmas  wouldn't  seem  like  Christmas  now  without 

him,"  Aunt  Hetty  said.     "  I  don't  believe  there's  his  eqiial 

in  wide  America.     A  gentleman  f  rom  top  to  toe,  if  there 

cver  was  one  yet."  ■  ^        ■ 

The  children  Aunt  Hetty  took  to  her  motherly  heart  at 

■  ■^imce-^Helen's  pale  lips  she  ^ssed,  and  Helen  was  ai 


''THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS,''  ETC. 


221 


home  in  five  minutes,  as  though  she  had  known  them  for 
years.  It  was  such  a  blessed,  restful  place— the  tired 
heart  drew  a  great  sigh  of  relief,  and  felt  half  its  weary  load 
lifted  off.  For  Norine — she  was  almost  the  Norine  of  old, 
flying  up  and  down  breezy  stairways,  in  and  out  breezy 
rooms,  the  old  songs  rippling  from  her  lips,  until  the 
tbought  of  the  pdle,  widowed  wife  down  stairs  made  her 
check  th^m.  Then  came  winter — the  first  fall  of  snow— 
the  first  gay  slëighing.  Little  Lauriewas  wild  with  de|ight 
— even  ^elen's  pale  lips  leamed  to  smile.  Kent  Hiïl  was 
working  a  transformation. 

Christmas  drew  near,  and  among  Norine's  pleasant 
duties  came  that  of  decorating  Mr.  Gilbert's  room,  the 
old  guest  chamber,  where  he  had  spent  so  many  happy, 
hopeful  nights  in  the  time'  when  he  had  loved  her.  He 
despised  her  now.  Ah,  what  a  wretch  she  had  been!  Ife 
would  despise  her  always.  Well,  she  deserved  it  ail  ;  it 
didn't  matter  ;  but — and. then  a  heavy  sigh  finished  t.te 
thought.  She  was  learning  the  value  of  what  she  had  K>st 
when  too  late. 

Christmas  arrived — Mr.  Gilbert  arrived.  And  Helen's 
wistful  eyes  looked  into  his  face,  and  asked  the  question 
her  lips  were  too  proud  to  shape. 

"There  is  no  news,"  he  said  softly,  as  he  bent  over  her 
chair  ;  "  only  the  old  news.  He  is  well— that  is  the  best  I 
can  tell  of  him." 

No  more  was  said,  Norine,  proud  and  humble  together, 
rather  avoided  him.  Still  they  wer«  of  necessity  a  great 
deal  together,  indoors  and  out,  and,  in  the  génial  glow  and 
cheerfulness  of  the  Christmas-time,  the  reserve  of  lK>th 
melted.  It  began  to  be  like  old  timôs— the  bright  coîor, 
JÈe  gajtJaugh,  theiight  step»  the  sparMing  eyes^  the  swisei 


Si» 


222 


NO  RI  ne:  S   RE  VENGE, 


singing,  m^e  Norine  the  very  Norine  of  four  years  ago 
And  Mr.  Gilbert— but  Mr.  Gilbert  was  ever  quiet  and 
undemonstrative  ;  his  calm,  grave  face  told  little,  exce|)t 
that  he  was  quietly  happy  ;  that  you  could  see. 

Christmas  passed,  New  Year  passed,  Mr.  Gilbert  >xeiit 
back  to  New  York.  And  suddenly  a  blank  fell  upon  KeiU 
Hîtt,  sleighing  and  skating  lost  their  zest— the*  weather 
grew  colder,  the  duU  country  duUer,  and  Mrs.  Darcy,  at 
the  close  of  January,  abruptly  announced  her  intention  of 
fetuming  to  New  York  also. 

"  If  you  are  willing  to  corne,  Nellie,"  she  said;  "of  course 
i'  you  would  rather  remain — " 

"Iwould  rather  go,"  Heleïi  answered.  "I  hâve  been 
happier  hère  than  I  ever  thought  to  be  again,  but  I  would 
rather  go." 

That  settled  it.  They  went.  And  on  the  second  of 
February  Mrs.  Darcy  donned  velvet  and  sables,  an(lsetofï 
for  Mr.  Gilbert's  office.  Was  it  altogether  for  Helen's  sake 
— altogether  for  news  of  Helen's  husband?  Well,  Mrs. 
Darcy  did  not  ask  herself  the  question,  so  no  one  else  per- 
haps  h  as  any  right  to  do  so. 

Looking  very  fresh,  very  stately,  very  handsome,  she 
came  like  a  bright  vision  into  the  lawyer/s  dingy  office. 
A  little  desultory  talk  then— playing  with  her  muff  tassels, 
she  askçd  the  ôld  question  : 

"  Was  there  any  news  of  him  ?  " 
^  "  Yes,"  Mr.  Gilbert  answered  this  time  ;  "there  is  news. 
Ile  has  been  very  ill  ;  he  has  been  in  a  hospital  ;  sonie 
blow  bn  the  head  received  in  a  drunken  brawl.  I  hunted 
him  up  the  day  he  was  discharged.  A  most  pitiable  object 
I  found  him— penniless,  friendless,  andstill  half  dazedfrom 
th<»  effects  of  the  blow.    I  took  him  to  à  respectable 


--C,- 


r 


> 


''THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS,'    ETC.       223 

boarding-house,  paid  a  month's  boarci  in  advance,  and  ob 
tained  the  landlady's  promise  to  look  after  him  a  little  more 
than  usual.     He  is  there  still,  but  gone  back  to  the  old 
life.     I  fear  ail  hope  for  him  is  at  an  end." 

Norine's  face  had  fallen  in  her  hands. 

"  May  Heaven  forgive  me  my  share  in  his  ruin  1  Oh, 
Mr.  Gilbert  !  it  may  not  be  yet  too  late.  Who  knows  ?  I 
will  go  to  him — I  will  beg  his  forgiveness — he  shall  return 
to  his  wife  and  children.  Give  me  his  address" — she 
started  impetuously  to  her  feet,  her  face  aglow— "  I  will 
go  at  once." 

He  gave  it  to  her  without  a  word,  written  on  a  slip  of 
paper.  As  she  took  it,  she  paused  and  looked  at  him  with 
clasped  hands. 

"  Mr.  Gilbert,"  she  faltered,  "  if— if  I  do  this  will  you 
forgive  me  ?  " 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  almost  as  a  father 
might,  more  moved  than  he  cared  to  show. 

"  I  forgive  you  now,"  he  answered. 

She  left  the  house,  entered  her  carriage,  and  bade  the 
coachman  drive  to  the  address.  ,  Then  with  a  glow  of  new 
hope,  new  happiness  at  her  heart,  she  fell  back.  Yes,  she 
would  atone  for  her  sin — she  would  labor  with  ail  her 
strength  to  reform  Laurence  Thorndyke,  to  win  forgiveness 
from  Heaven  and  her  friends.  Fifteen  minutes  brought 
her  to  the  Street,  Before  one  house  a  crowd  had  col- 
lected,  a  suppressed  murmur  of  infinité  excitement  rua- 
ning  through  the  throng.  — 

"It  is  the  very  house  we  are  looking  for,  ma'am"  said 
the  coachman,  opening  the  door. 

She  could  not  tell  why,  but  some  swift  feeling  of  evil 
made  her  get  eut  and  join  the  crowd. 


'■i,^5>>-1i'yff«-; 


*. 


224 


NOR/NE'S.  HEimMCE. 


**\Miat  is  it?  "  she  breathlesslyP|uired. 

"  Man  jumped  from  a  three-story  window  and  killed  hira 
self,"  was  the  answer.  '         ^  ~\ 

She  pressed  forward,  her  hand  on  her  hêart— very  pale. 

**  Why  did  he  do  it?  "  she  asked.         ,    ^  "       V 

"  Del.  trem.,  ma'am."  ' 

'^     "Jim  jams,  misses."  V.   * 

"  Delirium  tremens,  madam,"  interposed  a  geriàmanly 
maiR,  touching  his  hat.  "  He  jumped  from  that  M^j^r  win- 
dow,  stark  crazy,  not  five  minutes  ago.  Very  sâd^case— 
veiy  sad  case,  indeed.  A  gentleman  once.  I  Knôw  him 
well.    His  name  is  Laurence  Thomdyke." 


fN 


^'Wf'H 


^»9>- 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"THE  WAY  OF  THE  TRANSGRESSOR   IS   HARD."  • 

HE  stoocT  for  a  moment  faint,  sick,  stunned, 
unable  to  speak  or  move  ;  then  she  pressed 
f^rward,  stiU  without    a  word,   through    the 

•  u^     ±  J^T^'.      "^^    "^^^^  ""^y  ^°''   the  beautifuL 
nchlj-roVd  lady  with  the  death-white  face  and  dilated  eyes 

"Wife,"  one  whispered,  falling  away. 

"  Not  his  wife— his^ister,"  another  conjectured 

"  Neither,"  a  third  said.  "J  know  her.  Ifs  Mrs.  Huch 
Darcy,  his  late  uncle's  adopted  daughter.  He  has  no  sister 
and-his  wife  left  him  long  ago."  «  ' 

It  is  doubtful  if  she  heard  ;  it  is  certain  she  never 
heeded.  Ail  she  felt  or  knew  was  that  Laurence  Thorn- 
dyke  lay  yonder  on  the  blood-stained  flags.  dying  hard. 
She  was  kneeling  beside  him-a  bleeding,  mangled  heap. 
crushed  almost  out  of  semblance  o£  humanity. 

"  Laurence  !  Laurence  !  "  she  gasped.  "  Oh,  Heaveî  1 
not  dea4  !  not  dead  !  »  «-vcn  i 

"Not  dead,madam,"a  pitying  voice  answered— " not 
dead  yet.  I  am  a  physician,  and  I  tell  you  so.  He  is 
insensible  at  présent,  but  consciousness  wiU  return.  You 
know  him  ?  " 

"  Know  him  !  "    She  looked  into  thp  grave,  compassion. 
aie  face  with  dazed  eyes.     «  Know  Laurence  Thorndyke  î 
JV hat  is  at  you  mtend  doing  with  him  ?"  she  asked.^     ^^ 

10* 


'N^ 


X 


fTW 


226 


NOR/NETS  RE  VENGE. 


The  médical  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
\    "  Send  him  to  Sèlleinie,  1  suppose,  unless  some  friend 

«,teps  forward  and  takes  charge  of  him.  They  won!t  waiii. 
him  there  "— signîfying  the  boarding-house — <*  agab.  A\\^ 
if  lie  is  sent.to  a  hospital,  I  wouldn'î  giye  miich  for  his 
chances  of  life."  .    , 

^    "  There  is  still  a  chance,  therî  ?" 

«  VVell — ^you  know  the  formillq,,  '  while  there's  life  there's 
hope.'  With  the  beat  of  care,  and  nursing,  and  médical 
aid,  there  may  be  one  chance  in  a  hundred  for  him.  With 
tospital  care  and  attendance,  there's  not  a  shadçw." 
'  Then  for  the  space  of  five  seconds  a  pause  fell.  The 
city  stréfet,  the  gaping,  curtous  crowd  around  her  faded 
away,  and  there  arosç  before  Norine  a  far  différent  and 
never-to-be-forgotten  picture — a  desolate  autumn  evening  ; 
a  gray,  coniplaining  sea,  creepiug  yp  on  its  gray  sands,  a 
low,  fast-drifting  sky  lying  over  it,  and  on  thç  shore  a  girl 
standing,  jeading  a  few  brief  Unes  in  Laurence  Thorndyke's 
wriling — Unes  that  branded  her  as  a  thing  of  sin  and 
shame  for  life — that  broke  her  heart  as  she  read.  And 
now — her  énemy  lay  hère  at  her  mercy.  Why  should  she 
lift  a  finger  to  save  him  ?  Why  not  let  him  go  to  the  hos- 
pital and  take  hîs  charice?,  AlHhlt  man  can  do^O  ruin  a 
woman,  body  and  soûl,  hp  had  done— why  should  she  lift  a 

.  finger  to  save  him  now  ?       _  . 

She  thought  ail  this  in  a  m^oment  of  time.  The'tempter 
stood  at  her  side  and  rekindled  ail  the  pain,  and  hatred 
îfhd  horror  of  him.  Then  her  eyes  fell  upon  the.crushed, 
J3leeding,  senseless  form  at  her  feet,  and  she  turned  froro 
the  dark  ^houghts  within  her  with  horror  of  herself. 
"  Well,  madam  ?  "  the  voice  of  the  médical  man  said,  3 

__|ittlg  impBt'pntlyi  "  how  is  it  to  bej    Yoy^vidently  know 


«  THE  WA  Y  Of  THE   TRANSGRESSOR;'  &»C.  227 

\  •      -    .  .  ' 

this  unfortunate  ycfiing  man — shall  he  be  removed  to  the 

hcfspital,  or—"      •*!  ;  ■    4 

^"  To  my  house  !  "     She  .rose  suddenly,  her  self  pdsiisr 

sion  returning.     "  And  I  miist  beg  of  you  to  accompany 

him  therc/    No  efforts  must  be  spared  to  restore  him. 

Carry  him  to  the  carriage  at  once." 

'     Menxame  forward,  and  the  insensible  figure  was  gently 

lifted,  carried  to  the  carriage,  and  laid  upon  tKe  cushions 

Norine  entered,  and  took  his  head  in  her  lap.  The 
doctor  followed. 

"  Home  1  "  she  said  to  the  coachman,  and  they  drove 
slowly  back,  through  the  busy  streets,  to  the  quiet,  red- 
r        brick  mansion  that  for  years  had  been  Laurence  Thom- 
dyke's  home. 

,"  How  should  she  tell  Helen  ?  "  AU  the  ,way  that  thought 
filled  Norine.  • 

Through  her  the  wife  had  left  the  husband.  Was  Death 
hère  to  separàte  them  still  more  effectually  ?  Would  he  ever 
hâve  come  to  this  but  for  her  ?  In  some  way  did  not  this 
horror  lie  at  her  door  ?  In  ail  the  years  that  were  to  come 
«:ould  she  ever  atone  for  the  wickedness  she  had  donc. 

As  she  sat  hère  she  f elt  as  though  she  were  a  murderess. 
And  once  she  had  loved  this  man— passionately  loved  him. 
"  Fiercest  love  ihakes  fiercest  hâte."  He  had  cast  ofî  that 
love  with  scorn,Vshe  had  vovjred  revéhge,  and  veifily  she  had 
^  had  it  !  Of  forttine,  of  wife  and  chjld,  and  now  of  life,  it 
might  be,  she^sejemed  to  hâve  robbed  him. 

"  Oh,  forgive  me  my  sin  1  "  her  whole  stricken  soûl  cried 
eut. 

They  reached  the  house,  the  çoachmaç  and  the  physician 
lifted  the  still  senseless  man  and  carried  him  to  an  tipper 
chambet.  Summoning  her  housekeeper  to  their  aid»  Norina 


if,'<- 


*9. 


9 


O,^ 


:«e 


228  NORJNE'S  RE  VENGE. 

I 

left  them  and  went  in  search  of  the  wounded  man's 

wife. 

She  found  her  in  her  own  room  lying  listlessly,  wearily, 
as  usual,  upon  a  sofa,  gazing  with  lired,  hopeless  eyes  at  the 
fire,  while  her  little  children  played  about  her.  Kneeling 
before  her,  her  face  bowed  upon  the  pillows,  her  tears  f all- 
ing,  her  voice  broken  and  choked,  Nonne  told  the  story 
she  had  corne  to  tell.  In  the  room  above  her  husband  lay, 
injured  it  might  be  unto  death. 

"  If  he  dies,"  Norine  said,  her  voice  still  husky,  her  face 
still  hidden.  "  I  shall  feel,  ail  my  life-long,  as  though  I 
wère  his  murderess.  If  he  dies,  how  shall  I  answer  to  Heav- 
en  and  to  you  for'tbé  work  I  hâve  done  ?  '' 

Helen  Thomdyke  had  arisen  and  stood  holding  by  the 
sofa  for^  support,  an  awful  ghastliness  on  her  face,  an  awful 
horror  ift  her  eyes.     Dying  !  Laurence  dying  !  znà  like  this  ! 

"  Let  me  ço' to  him  !  "  she  said;  hoarsely,  going  blindly 
forward.  "  You  are  not  to  blâme— he  wroiiged  you  beyond 
ail  forgiveness,  but  I  was  his  wife  and  I  deserted  him.  The 
blâme  is  mine — ail  mine." 

She  made  her  way  to  the  room  where  they  had  laid  him. 
On  the  threshold  she  paused,  faint  almost  unto  death.  The 
yellow,  wintry  sunshine  slanted  in  and  fiUed  the  chamber. 
Upon  the  white  bed  he  lay,  rigid  and  ghastly.  They  had 
washed  away  the  clotted  blood,  and  the  face  was  entirely  un- 
injured.  Worn,  haggard,  awfuUy  corpse-like,  it  lay  upon  the 
pillows,  thfe  golden,  sparkling  sunshine  streaming  across  it 

"  Laurence  1  Laurence  !  Laurence  !  " 

At  that  anguished  cry  of  love  and  agony,  ail  fell  back 
before  the  wife.  She  had  ciossed  the  roo^^  she  had|allen 
on  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  she  had  clasped  the  life- 
leg«i  figit'EL  in  Hf  r  HOLgi  ^gî^i^^r^  and  kisses  raining  upon 


\ 


«  THE  TVA  Y  OF  THE   TRANSGRESSOR^  &-C  229 

the  still  rigid  face.  Ail  was  forgotten,  ail  forgiven  — the 
bitter  wrongs  he  had  donc  her.  Nothing  remained  but  the 
trutli  that  she  loved  him  still,  that  he  was  her  husband,  and 
that  he  lay  hère  before  her — dying. 

Dying  I  No  need  to  look  twice  in  the  physician's  sombre 
countenance  to  see  that. 

"  He  will  not  live  an  hour,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  No- 
rine's  agonîzed  asking  look  ;  "  it  is  doubtful  whethet  he 
will  retum  to  consciousness  at  ail.  There  is  concussion  of 
the  brain,  and  several  internai  injuries — any  one  enough 
to  prove  his  death.     Mortalaidisunavailinghere." 

Dying  I  Yes,  even  to  Norine's  own  inexperienççd  eyes 
the  dreadful  seal  was  yonder  on  the  face  among  the  pillows 
His  wife's  arm  encircled  his  neck,  her  face  was  hidden  on 
his  bosom,  a  duU,  dumb,  moaning  sound  coming  from  her 
lips.  He  lay  there  rigid — as  if  dead  already — ail  uncon- 
scious  of  that  last  agonized'  embrace  of  love,  and  forgive- 
ness,  and  remorse. 

The  doctor  left  the  room,  waiting  without  in  case  his  ser- 
vices should  be  needed.  Norine  dispatched  a  messenger 
to  Mr.  Gilbert,  another  for  a  clergyman.  Hemightfetum 
to  reason,  if  only  for  a  moment  before  the  spirit  passed 
away. 

"  He  cannot — ^he  cannot  die  like  this  !  "  she  cried  out, 
wringing  her  harids  in  her  pain.     "  It  is  too  dreadful  1  " 

The  doctor  shook  his  heàd.    , 

"  Dreadful  indeed.  But  ♦  the  way  of  the  transgresser  is 
hard.'    He  will  never  speak  on  earth  again." 

Richard  Gilbert  came,  almost  as  pale  as  the  pale  remorse- 
ful  woman  who  met  him.  '  It  was  the  physician  who  en- 
countered  and  told  him  the  story  first.^  He  entered  ^he 
room.    Norine  stood  leaning  against^the  foot  of  the  bedL^ 


/ 

^^^ 


m 


N^ 


230 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 


Helen  srill  kneît,  holding  her  dyinghusband  in  her  arms, 
her  face  still  hidden  on  his  breast.     One  look  told  hira  . 
that  the  awful  change  was  already  at  hand. 

And  so,  with  the  three  he  had  wronged  most  on  earlh 
around  him,  Laurence  Thomdyke  lay  dying.  Out  of  the 
hearts  of  the  three  ail  memory  of  those  wrongs  had  gone, 
only  a  great  awe  and  sorrow  left.  For  Norine,  as  she  stood 
there,  the  old  days  came  back— the  days  that  hadbeenthe 
most'blessed  of  her  life,  when  she  had  given  him  her 
whole  heart,  and  f  ancied  she  had  won  his  in  retum.  Old 
thoughts,  old  memories  returned,  until  her  he^rt  was  full 
to  breaking  ;  and  she  hid  her  "face  in  her  hands,  with  sobs 
almost  as  bitter  as  the  wife's  bwn. 

The  moments  wore  on— profound  silence  reigned  through 
the  house.  Once  doctor  and  clergyman  stole  in  together, 
glanced  at  tjïe  prostrate  man,  glanced  at  each  other,  and 
drew  back.  Priest  and  physician  were  alike  powerless 
hère.  The  creeping  shadow  that  goes  before  was  upon 
that  ghastly  face  already.  Death  was  in  the  midst  of  them. 
Without  opening  his  eyes  a  sudden  tremor  ran  through  the 
senseless  form  from  head  to  foot.  Helen  lifted  her  awe- 
struck  face.  That  tremor  shook  him  for  a  moment  as 
though  the  soûl  were  forcibly  rending  its  way  from  the 
body.    Then  he  stretched  out  his  limbs  and  lay  still. 


I[i 


II 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


/*-\ 


"JENNIE     KISSED     ME." 

IT  Js  a  bright  but  chilly  May  day.  In'  the  lux 
urious  sitting-room  of  Mrs.  Liston-Darcy  a  coa! 
fire  is  burning,  and  in  a  purple  arm-chair  before 

this  génial  fire  Mrs.  Darcy  sits. 

She  is  looking  very  handsome  as  she  sits  hère,  the  bril- 
liant  morning  sunshine  streaming  across  her  dusk  beauty 
and  loosely-rippling  hair — very  handsome  in  her  rose-pink 
^vrapper,  with  a  soft  drift  of  lace  about  theslim  throat  and 
\A  rists.     Very,  handsome,  and  yet  a  trifle  out  of  sorts,  top  ; 
for  the  dark,  slender  brows  are  contracted,  and  the  brown, 
luminous  eyes  gaze  sombrely  enough  intothe  depths  of  the 
fire      She  sits  looping  and  unlooping  in  a  nervous  sort  of 
restlessness  the  cord  and  tassels  that  bind  her  slendet 
waist,  one  slippered  foot  be^ting  an  impatient  tattoo  on 
the  hassock,  her  lips  comprfessed  in  deep  and  unpleasant 
thought.     About  the  room,  great  trunks  half-packed  stand  j 
in  the  wardrobe  adjoining,  her  maid  is  busily  folding  away 
dres.ses.     Evidently  an  exodus  is  at  hand. 

•*  I  cannot  go— I  shall  not  go  until  I  see  him,"  she  is 
thinking  ;  "it  is  only  what  I  hâve  richly  earned,  what  my 
treachery  of  the  past  deserves,  but  it  is  none  the  less  hard 
to  bear.  I  cast  ofï  his  love  once,  tramplcd  his  heart  under 
my  feet  ;  he  would  be  less  than  man  to  ofîer  it  again  to 
one  so  treacherous  and  unworthy.    And  Nellie  îs  an  angd 


''■\ 


2S2 


JVÔR/NE'S  RE  VENGE. 


— who  can  wonder  that  he  loves  her  >     Tf  ic  «„  •    . 

pale  flowing  robes  of  the  bride.  I 

^  tragic death, oneyear andseven months  hâve  oassed  ,„H  ,t 

good  deal,  and  ,s  veo-  much  admired.    And  yet  no  ™f^ 
»uffej.d  how  greatly.  only  Helen  herself  ti ,  evef  know 

"  Time,  that  blunts  the  edge  of  things, 
Dnesourteatsandspoilsourbliss.»  ,  "^ 

■^zrj:i:2^X'^z:'  r-  '"'  -'^  »-"  «<. 

.owed«.a.tragic7™::«eLT;u.t^tridf'"  ""• 

and  wannest  an,ong  them,  Richard  clibert'        """' 

In  the  little  cottage,  pre«„ted  kp.  byNorme,  wher. 


■•# 


y^M 


■'      h:4^ 


"JENNIE  KISSED  ME." 


Helen  and  her  little  Mes  dwelt  th.  i  ^^^ 

fréquent  visitor.    When  Mrs   Ih^*  '?T'' "^^  '  «T 
to  ail  others  tl,ey  openjd  t^w  ^''"'™''^ke's  doors  closed 

death,  that  the  stricken  ™„„f  -j    "^'"*  Thoradyke', 
her  home  in  her  hout  bi Ih?  nfr  ??"  ^''"  "'^'«' 
«anted  to  be  alone  to  Wrl  'i,  ^.     " ''^'' '''"'«'l-    «he' 
ali  eyes,  and  Nonne  had  ^deST  fî"^  ^"''^  '"» 
herwilh  thepretty  v,nl„„.  !.        'hefeeling,  andgifted 
"Oise  and  tu^^o.l^'TTen^hrK"^^  ""''"'^  *'  '"y'» 
throughthose  first  ^fse^k  mol,       ??'=''"  ''^^'' 

«rs^bittera,ony-otre.<:S„rd«:r''  '"''' ''°'"  ■■- 
vvnen  tiie  summer    with   >     fi 

came  they  left  the  citv'-,  ,^„,  k^         '  '^^''"S  sunshine 
parks,  Jthe  c  J  b,^ezes  aLd  ^.^T''  """^  ^"-Weached 

Hill.      ThifterRich'dG^erb^T."'""'^'"" 
The  close  intimacy  between  Wm      l  ""'^""n.  followed. 
The  children  cluLtou" '"'"/"<'  »«'»  «everwaned. 

«s  co„i„,.  He  si:ed""„'ert„"C:fth'^"^'"^' 
socety.  Was  it  altogether  for  d?  ,1?^  *"'  '"■*" 
for  their  mother's  s4  Norine  woLtd  Tr'  "  "''■'""■ 
Sharp,  jealous  pangs.  He  sbenf T  <.'  '''"«  ''"  «"' 
"ent  bacfc.    And  when  S^Mk      "*  ™"'  *^"»  'hen 

camerefreshingly'toNe^lort^rhar  '''""°"'' 
«■don-s,  with  the  two  little  rhnj        ^Z  handsome  young 

«hat  .inter.  Mrs.Tis  'fi^trS  ™^  ^^^^    /"  ^-'''' 
was  admired   enormously.       Not    aTô      T*'  '""'•'«• 

«ocjç  ;  for  her  own  bo„„U  b  Jk  ey«  and       ■■" . ''"'' 
lovelmess.    Many  men  hn».j  j  ^  !    ^  '"=  V^<¥a.n\ 

,^a..<.so™er,  mo  Jfa:::;''rn''thari^r??r,r^-^'" 


a» 


a 


'^-Ys 


4r 
^34 


NORIN£PS  RE  VENGE. 


men  touched  her  heart,  to  none  of  tU^  ^yas  sîie  inclincd 
to  tell  the  story  of  her  own  dark  past.     It  was  a  bond  * 
between  herself,  and  Helen,  and  Mr.  Gilbert.     In  spPte  or 
herself  she^iad  learned  to  love  him,  to  knowhim,  to  value 
him.   Slie  turnedher  wistful  eyes  to  his  face,  but  those  dark. 
.  lustrqus  looks  had  fooled  hint  once— he  was  not  the  man  te 
makehimself  any  woman's  puppet,  and  dance  asshe  pulled 
the  strings.  He  saw  nothing  but  that  she  was  rich,  far  beyond  ~ 
ail  riches  of^is,  more  beautiful  with  every  passing  year, 
surrounded  by.young  and  handsome  men,  ready  to  mafry 
ber  at  any  moment..   She  hfad  flung  him  off,  unable  to 
love  him  years  ago.     Was  it  likely  that  old,  and  gray,  and 
grim,  she   could   caré   for  him    now  >    He   laughed,  in  a 
dreary  sort  of  mockery,  àt  the  bare  thought.     Love  and 
marriage  had  gone  out  of  his  life' forever  ;  he  must  be 
content  with  Helen's  trust  ^nd  friendship,  untilsome  môre 
favored  man  bore  her  off,  too,  with  her  children  ;   until 
they  also  outgrew  childish  loves.     That  the  world  coupled' 
his  name  with  hers,   in  that  way,   he  absolutely  never 
dreamed. 

Another  May  had  come,  and  Norine,  wearied  of  it  ail, 

and  fuUof  nameless  restlessness,  took  a  sùdden  resolution. 

She  would  go  abroad.    Iri  travel  she  yrould  find  change  and 

-peace,'and  when   Helen  became  his  wifè  she,  at  least, 

would  not  be  hère  to  see  it. 

As  she  walked  up  and  do^i,  deep  in  her  own  somber 
thoughts,  the  boudoir  door  opened,  and  Helen  herself 
came  in — shè  was  passing  thèse  last  days  with  her  friend 
— came  in  looking  tàll  and  statqly,  and  very  fàir  in  her 
trailing  black  dress,  and  most  becoming  widow's  cap. 

"  Mr.  Gilbert  has  come,  N^ry,"  she  says.  "  Will  you  gc 
down  or  ,shall  he  come  up  ?  " 


■M. 


/ 


''yEiVNIE  K/SSED  ME.'' 


235 


A  lovely  rose  pink  flushes  into  Norine's.face.  She  keeps 
It  averted  from  Helen  as  she  replies  : 
V    "It  doesn't  matter,,doesit?"  with  elaborate  careless- 
ness  ;  "he  may  as  well  corne  lïp.     I  wish  to  speak  to  hiin 
•on  légal  business.     Susan,  yoil  may  go  for  the  présent.'* 

So  Susan  goes,  and  Mrs.  Thorndyke  returns   to  the 

drawing-room  and  tells  Mr.  Gilbert,  Norine  will  see  him 

upstairs,     He  goes  up  stairs,  and  appears  presently  be- 

.  foré  the  mistress  of  the  house,  rather  paler  than  usual  if 

she  did  but  notice  it. 

"Good-moming,  Mr.  Gilbert,"  she  says,  coming  forward 
,with"outstretched  hand  and  a  smile.     "  I  heard  from  Lis- 
ton you  had  returned  to  town,  and,  sent  for  you  at  once. 
I  hope  you  enjoyed  your  trip  to  Baltinvore  ?  " 

"As  muçh  as  orte  usually  enjpys  a  flying  visit,  forced  upon 
one  at  a  most  inopportune  ti*fie.  I  went  to  make  a  will. 
What  is  this  Nellie  tells  me  >  You  are  going  to  Europe  ?  " 
"  Going  to  Europe.  I  am  a  restless,  dissatisfied  sort  of 
mortal,  I  begin  to  ihink— never  so  happy  as  when  on  the 
wing.  Mr.  Darcy's  death  eut  short  my  continental  tour 
before  ;  I  shall  makQ  a  prolonged  one  this  time." 

He  was  very  grave  and  pale  ;  even  she  noted  the  palier 
now. 

"You  are  looking  ill,"  she  said,  drawing  doser  to  him  j 
"  there  is  nothing  the  matter,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  th|ink  you.  How  long  do  you  propose  re« 
maining  awày  ?  " 

"  Three  years  at  the  least." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.     Norine  broke  it. 

"Fou  said  just  now  your  trip  to  Baltimore  was  to  make 
a  will.  I  sent  for  you  this  raorning  on  that  same  errand  j 
jjm  going  tojnakemy  ^w^^^^^         '. 


S.L.  f.,.i»  À.  ''"'.■l-'     'a    >'.   ■ 


236 


NORINE'S  KE  VENGE. 


He  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her, 

"  Your  will  !  "  he  repeated. 

"  My  will.  No,  doh't  look  anxious,  dear  friend  j  I  don't 
think  I  am  going  to  die.  Only,  when  one  intends  to  spend 
threeyears  upon  steamers  and  express  trains,  one  may  as  weil 
be  on  the  safe  side.  If  anything  should  happen,  it  is  well 
to  be  able  to  give  an  account  of  one's  stewardship.  I  want 
to  provide  for  Heîen  and  the  childrert.  Helen  may  not  need 
any  help  of  mine"— the  steady,  sweettones  shook  a  little-^ 
"  but  it  belongs  of  right  to  the  children.  Once  it  Was  to  hâve 
been  ail  their  father's.  I  shall  only -be  giving  them  back" 
what  is  rightly  thejrs.  I  wish  to  leave  ail  I  hâve  to  them. 
To-morrow,  Mr.  Gilbert,  if  you  are  not  busy,  I  will  go  to 
your  office  and  make  my  will."  * 

Then  there  was  a  long,  strange  pause.  In  her  owri 
room  adjoining,  Helen  Thorndyke  sang  softly  as  she 
moved  about.  Thé  sweet,  soft  words  came  clearly  to 
them  as  they  stood  there  : 

"  Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met, 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in. 
Time,  you  thief  I  who  loved  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  îist,  put  that  'm. 
Say  l'm  weary,  say  l'm  sad , 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  hâve  missed  me, 
Say  l'm  growing  old,  but  add—  "^ 

Jeimy  kissed  me  1  "  -       "    ' 

Mr.  Gilbert  was  the  first  to  break  the  ^ell  of  silence. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  he  said.  "  It  can  do  no  harm, 
only— it  will  be  trouble  taken  for  nothing.  You  will  pass 
unscathed  the  fiery  ordeal  of  steamers  and  express  trains, 
and,"with  a  smile,  "one  day  you  will  marry  again  and 
make  to-morrow's  légal  work  nuU  and  void." 


%'■ 


1 

•Y 


^ 


f    '\yENNIE  KISSED  ME.- 

"I  willj^evèr  marry." 

She  saî^  it  gravely.  and  a  little  coldly.    He  was  watching 
her-her  eyes  were  steadfastly  fixed  upon  the  fire 

Naver.marry?"heechoed,stilIsmiIin^.     "What  will 
the  honorable  member  from  Ohio  say  to  that>" 

"  You  allude  to  Mr.  More,  I  suppose."  she  said,  still  coldly. 

I  ain  aware  goss.p  bas  coupled  <^r  names,  and  gossip  i 
about  as  correct  m  this  instance  as  it  usually  is." 

"  ^^^""e  not  engaged  to  him,  then !» 

*u    ^  .^"^^^"^^S^^  ^°  "o  o"?.     I  care   nothing  for  Mr. 
More,  m  the  way  you  mean.    Even  if  I  did,  I  still  would 
not  dream  of  mariying  him." 
"  And  why  not  ?"       * 

.hZ?^.  T  '    7°"  ^"^  "'^  '^"'-y°"  ^^°  J^"°^  the  cruel, 
shamefui  story  of  my  past,  the  story  I  should  bave  to  -tell  » 

You  were  far  more  sinned  against  than  sinning,  and 
you  hâve  atoned."  *' 

only  hope  I  had  atoned  !  "   {  ^  » 

r  J7'"  J^'^l  '"^'"^-  ï  ^^y  it  ^ith  ail  my  heart.  Your 
revenge  has  been  a  noble  one.  You  hâve  blest  and 
bnghtened  the  life  of  Helen  and  her  children.     F^  hzm 

^oned""»""^^^  ^''  '^°°"'  "^"^  ^'^  own  hand!  You  hâve 

"To  Helen  and  her  childrgH^Trhaps  yes,"  she  said,    ' 
her  voice  broken  and  low;  ^it  the  greatest  wrong  of  aU 

beyond  ail  forgiveness.    The  remorse  of  my  life  is  for  ihat. 

.nL      uT  f  "'"''^  honor,you  trusted  me  se  entirely. 

and  X-ah  I  what  a  wretch  I  must  hâve  been  in  your^eyea 

jvnatawretchlmusfh^<.rill." .= ^^ 


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238 


NORINEPS  RE  VENGE. 


He  arose  to  his  feet,  moved  beyond  ail  power  of  silène 
now. 

"  Must  be  still,"  he  repeated.  *'  Norine  !  why  do 
you  make  me  say  this  ?  I  love  and  honor  you  beyond 
ail  women."        * 

She  gave  a  low  cry,  and  stood  with  her  hands  clasped 
together. 

"  I  never  thought  to  say  it — ^you  force  it  from  mo  in  self- 
defence.  I  loved  you  then — I  love  you  now.  You  hâve 
never  ceased  for  one  instant  to  hold  your  place  in  my 
heart.  It  is  foUy,  I  know,  but  fplly  you  will  not  laugh  at 
If  you  wronged  me,  Norine — and  you  hâve — I  forgive  you 
^^rèely,  utterly,  and  I  pray  Heaven  to  make  you  happy  in 
the  love  of  some  happier  man." 

She  stood  spell-bbund — the  shock  of  surprise  was  sn 
utter,  but  over  herface  a  great  joy  was  breaking. 

•'  And  Helen  ?  "  she  gasped. 

"  Helen?"  he  looked  at  her  in  wonder.     ' 

"  Did  you  not  know — can  it  be  possible  tliat — Mr.  Gilbert, 
the  world  says  Helen  is  to  be  your  wife  !  " 

His  look  of  amaze  and  consternation  was  so  great  that 
she  laughed  outright — Norine's  pwn  sweet,  soft  laugh. 

"  Good  Heaven  !"  he  said,     "What  preposterous  non- 

.  sensé  !     Why,  only  yesterday  Helen  was  urging  me  to 

speak  to  you — the  very  folly  I  am   guilty  pf  to-day.    j|^ 

was  absurd  enough  to  imagine  I  had  still  a  chance  left.     I 

speedily  convinced  hèrof  the  contrary." 

"  Did  you  ?"  Norine  said,  a  roguish  sAile  diînpling  the 
pretty  mouth.  "  But  then  Mr.  Gilbert  is  famous  as  a 
spécial  pleader,  and  poor  Nellie  is  so  weakly  credulous.  I 
don't  beligve  you  would  find  it  so  easy  to  convince  mt.'* 

"  Norine  !  "  he  stood  still,  his  face  paae,-his'eyes  startled 


■.■i^.4.. 


iiT^4^,.^l.Ji.-''/^--.i!^\i  ■" 


"7ENNJE  K/SSED  ME:' 

-  ^j9 

"  for  pity's  sake  what  is  it  you  mean  ?  D^on't  let  me  hope 
only  to  iool  me  again  !   I— I  couidn't  bear  that  !  " 

She  came  forward,  both  hands   eloquently  outstrttched 
a  smile  quuering  on  her  lips,  tears  in  the  dusk.  lovelv' 
ej-es.  ■  '  y 

"  Richard,  seel  ï  love  you  with  ail  my  heart— I  hâve '^ 
oved  you  for  years.  Let  me  atone  for  the  past-let  me 
keep  the  plight  1  broke  so  long  ago-let  me  be  your  wife 
Life  can  holdno  l^ppiness  half  so  great  as  that  ïor  me  I  " 
And  then,  as  he  folded  her  in  his  arms  close  tQ  the  heàrt 
that  would  shelter  her  foreve^  Helen's  happy  voice  camf 
borne  to  them  whefe  they  stood. 


"  Say  l'ni  ^eary,  say  l'm  sad, 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  hâve  misSed  me* 
Say  l'm  CToivinf-Dld,  but  add—  ' 

Jennylpsàedmel" 


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SIR  NOEL'S  HEIR, 


CHAPTER  I. 

SIR  noel's  death  bed.  "^- 

HE  December  night  had  ciôsed  in  wet  and 
wUd  around  Thetford  Towers.    It  stood  down 
m  the  low  ground,  smothered  in  trees,  a  tall 
gaunt,  hoaiy  pile  of  gray  stone,  ail  peaks  and 
gab  e^and  stacks  of  chimneys,  and\ook-i;festedt;reL 
A  queer,  massive,  old  house,  built  in  the  days  of  Tames 
the  First,  by  Sir  Hugo  Thetford,  the  first  baronet  nf  Ti! 
name,  and  a^  staunch  a»d  strong'now  as  L^   "'  ''  ^' 

fh  Jn  ^^T^!"  ^^y  had  been  overcast  and  gloomy  bût 
the  December  night  was  stormy  and  wild     Th-  «    1' 
riedandwailed  through  the  Issin.^L'Ï^Z^^^^^^ 


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a;^. 


■^wsfe;^. 


244 


S/R  NOEVS  HEIR. 


speed.  Hîs  errand  was  to  Dr.  Gale,  the  village  surgeon, 
which  gentlem^  he  found  just  preparing  to  go  to  bed. 

"  For  Ood's  sake,  doçtor,"  cried  the  man,  white  as  a 
sheet,  "  corne  with  me  ^  once.     Sir  Noel's  killed  1  " 

Dr.  Gale,  albeit  phlegmatic,  staggered  back,  and  starcd 
at  the  speajcer  aghast. 

"What?'    Sir  Noël  killed?" 

"  We're  afraid  so,  doctor  ;  none  of  us  know  for  certain 
sure,  but  he  lies  there  like  a  dead  man,  Come,  quick,  for 
the  love  of  goodness,  if  you  want  to  do  any  service  !  " 

"  ru  be  with  yo^in  five  minutps,"  said  the  doctor,  leav- 
ing  the  room  to  order  his  horse,  and  don  his  hat  andgreat 
coat. 

Dr.  Gale  was  as  good  as  his  word.  In  less  than  ten 
minutes  he  and  the  gfoom  were  flying  recklessly  along  to 
Thetford  Towers. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?  *'  asked  the  doctor,  hardly  able 
to  speak  for  the  furious  pace  at  which  they  were  going.  "  I 
thought  he  was  at  Lady  Stokestone's  bail."      -«% 

"  He  did  go,"  replied  the  groom  ;  "  leastways  he  took 
my  lady  there  ;  but  safd  he  had  a  friend  to  meet  fromLon- 
don  at  the  Royal  George  to-night,  and  he  rode  back.  We 
don't,  none  of  us,  know  how  it  happened  ;  for  a  better  or 
surer  rider  than  Sir  Noël  there  ain't  in  Devonshire;  but 
Diana  must  hâve  sli{fped  and  threw  him.  She  came  gal- 
loping  in  by  herself  about  half  an  hour  ago,  ail  blown  ;  and 
me  and  three  more  set  ofï  to  look  for  Sir  Noël.  We  found 
him  about  tWenty  yards  from  the  gâtes,  l3ring  on  his  face 
■  in  the  mud,  and  as  stifE  and  cold  as  if  he  was  dead." 

"  And  you  brought  him  home  and  came  for  me  ?  " 

"  Directly,  sir.  Some  wanted  to  send  word  to  my  lady  , 
but  Mrs.  Hilliard,  she  thought  how  you  had  bcst  see  him 


S/J!  NOËL  S  DEATH  BED. 


245 


first,  sir,  so's  we'd  know  what  danger  he  was  really  in  be 
fore  alarming  her  ladyship." 

«Quiteright,  William.  Let  us  trust  it  may  not  be  serious 

«  «fn  J"  ^^"~^  "'^^"'  ^  '"PP°«^  ^e  ^^d  beendtning. 
Well,  doctor,"  said  Willian,,  «  Arneaud,  that's  his  valey 
de  chambre,  you  know,  sai4^Ke  thought  he  hadtaken 
more  wine  than  prudent  going  to  Lady  Stokestone's  balL 
whichher  ladyship  is  veryparticularabout  such,you  know. 
sir."  <  ' 

"Ah!  that  accounts,"  said  the  doctor,  thoughtfully  • 
«  and  now,  Wil  W  ,iy  man,  don't  let's  talk  any  more,  for 
I  feel  completeM»)wn  already." 

Ten  minutlPPl)  riding  brought  them  to  the  great  en- 
trance  gâtes  of  Thetford  Towers.   An  old  woman  came  out 
01  a  httle  lodge,  built  in  the  huge  masonry,  to  admit  them. 
and  they  dashed  up  the  long  winding  avenue  under  the 
surgmg  oaks  and  chestnuts.     Five  minutes  more,  and  Dr 
Gale  was  running    up  a  polished  staircase    of   black 
and  shppery  oak,  down  an  equally  wide  and  black  and 
shppery  passage,  and  into  the  chamber  where  Sir  Noël 
lay. 

A  grand  and  stately  chamber,  lofty,  dark,  and  wainscoted 
where  the  wax-candles  made  luminous  clouds  in  the  dark- 
ness,  and  the  wood-fire  on  the  marble  hearth  failed  to  give 
heat.  The  oak  floor  was  overlaid  with  Persian  rugs  •  the 
wmdows  were  draped  in  green  velvet  ;  an<tt^ chairs  were 
upholstered  in  the  same.  Near  the  centre  of  the  apartment 
stood  the  bed,  tall,  broad,  quaintly  canid,  curtained  in 
green  damask,  and  on  it,  cold  and  apparently  lifeless,  lay 
the  wounded  man.  Mrs.  HiUiai^,  the  hoûsekeeper,  sat 
beside  him  ;  and  Arneaud,  the  Swiss  valet,  withafrightened 
face,  stood  near  the  fire. 


24^ 


w 


S/H  NOEVS.  HEIR. 


"Vory  shockag  business  this,  Mrs.  Hilliard,"  said  thft 
doctor,  removing  his  hat  and  gloves — "  very  shocking.  How 
is  he  ?    Any  signs  of  consciousness  yet  ?  " 

"  Nonë  whatever,  sir,"  replied  the  housekéeper,  rising. 
*  I  am  so  thankful  ypu  hâve  come.     We,  none  of  us,  knew 
what  to  do  for  him  ;  and  it  is  dreadful  to  see  him  lying 
there  like  that." 

She  moved  away,  leaving  the  doctor  to  his  examination. 
Tfift  minutes,  fifteen,  twenty  passed  ;  then  Dr.  Gale  turned 
to  her  with  a  v^  gravç  face.  '  ' 

*'  It  is  too  late,  Mrs.  ^Hilîiard.     Sir  Noël  is  a  dead  man." 

"BÊfâ^"jepeated  Mrs.  Hilliard,  trembling,  and  holding 
by  a  chait     "  Oh,  my  lady  !  my  lady  1  " 

•*  I  am  going  to  bleed  him,"  said  the  doctor,  ^*  to  restore 
consciousness.  He  may  last  until  morning.  Send  for 
Lady  Thetford  at  once,"  ^ 

Ameaudstartedup.  iMrs.  Hilliard  looked  at  hinj,  wring- 
ingherhands.  ' 

^'  Break  it  géntly,  Ameaud.  Oh,  my  lady  1  my  dear 
ladyl  so  young,  and  so  pretty — and  only  married  five 
months  !  " 

The  swiss  valet  left  the  room.  Dr.  Gale  got  out  his  lan- 
cet,  and  desired  Mrs.  Hilliard  to  hold  the  basin.  At  first 
the  blood  refused  to  flow — but  presently  it  came  in  a  little 
feeble  stream.  The  closed  eyelids  fluttered  ;  there  was  a 
restless  movement,  a,nd  Sir  Noël  Thetford  opened  his  eyes 
on  this  mortail  life  once  more.  He  looked  first  at  the  doc- 
tor, grave  and  pale,  then  at  the  housekéeper,  sobbing  on 
her  knees  by  the  bed.  He  was  a  young  man  of  seven-aijd- 
twenty,  fair  and  handsome,  as  it  was  in  the  nature  of  the 
Thetfordfe  to  be. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  f  aintly  asked.    "  Wùat  is  the  matter  ? 


S/H  NOËL  s  DEATH  BED. 


247 


"  You  are  hurt,  Sir  Noël,"  the  doctor  answered,  sadly; 
•you  havebeen  thrown  from  your  horse.  Don't  attempt 
to  move — you  are  not  able." 

"I  remember — I  remember,"  said  the  young  man,  a 
gleMTi  of  recollection  Hghting  up  his  ghastly  face.  "Diana 
slipped,  and  I  -was  tlirown.    How  long  ago  is  that  ?  '* 

"  About  an  hour." 

"  And  I  am  hurt  ?   Badly  ?  " 

He  fixed  his  eyes  ^th  a  powerful  look  on  the  doctor's 
face,  and  that  good  inan  shrunk  away  from  the  news  he 
must  tell.  .  J 

**  Badly  ?  '*  reiterated  the  young  baronet,  in  a  perempto^ 
tone,  that  told  ail  of  his  nature.  "Ah  I  you  won't  speak, 
I  see.  I  am,  and  I  feel — I  feel —  Doctor,  am  I  going  to 
die?"  .        ; 

He  asked  the  question  with  wildness— -a  sudden  hor- 
'  ror  of  death,  half  starting  up  in  bed.     Still  the  doctor  did 
not  speak  ;  still  Mrs  Hilliard's  suppressed  sobs,  echojtHl  in 
the  stillness  of  the  vast  room.\  .  ,,'. 

Sir  Noël  Thetfôrd  fell  back  on  his  pillow,  a  shadoW  as 
ghastly  and  awful  as  death  itself,  lying  on  his  fàte.  But 
he  was  a  brave  man,  and  the  descendant  of  a  fearless  race  ; 
and  except  for  one  convulsivç  throe  that  shook  him  from 
head  to  foot,  nothing  told  his  horror  of  his  sudden  fate. 
There  Was  aweird  pause.  Sir  Noël  lay  stjjring  straight  at 
the  oaken  wall,  his  bloodless  face  awful  in  its  intens^ty  of 
hidden  feeling.  |Rain  and  wind  outside  rose  higher  and 
higher,  and  beat  clamorously  àt  the  Windows  j  and  still 
above  them,  mighty  and  terrible,  rose  ^e  far-off  voiceof  th<i 
ceaseless  sea.  "  ^ 

The  doctor  was  the  first  to  speak,  in  hushed  ànd  awe 
itrucktones.  *       » 


[' 


■    ?. 


248 


Sm  NOEVS  HEIR. 


"  My  dear  Sir  Noël,  the  time  is  çhort/and  I  can  do  Utile 
or  nothing.     Shall  I  send  for  the  Rev.  Mr  Knight  ?  " 

The  dying  eyes  turqed  upon  him  with  a  steady  gaze. 

"  HflBT  long  havqifl  to  live  ?    I  want  the  truth." 

"  Sii  Noël,  it  is  very  hard,  yet  it  must  be  Heaven's  will. 
But  a  few  hours,  I  fear." 

"So  soo^"  said  the  dying  man.  "  I  did  not  think — 
•Send  for  Lady  Thetford,"  he  cried,  wildly,  half  raising  him- 
self  again — send  for  Lady  Thetford  at  once  1  "  " 

"We  hâve  sent  for  her,"  said  the  doctor;  "sbe  will  be 
hère  very  soon.  But  the  clergjrman,  Sir  Noël — ^the  clergy- 
man.     Shall  we  not  send  for  him  ?*" 

"  No  !  "  said  Sir  Noël,  sharply.  "  What  do  I  want  of  a 
clergyman  ?  Leave  mç,  both  of  you.  Stay,  you  c^n  give 
me  something;  Gale,  to  keep  up  my  strength  to  the  last  ?  1 
shall  need  it.  Now  go.  I  want  to  see  nô  one  but  Lady 
Thetford." 

"  My  lady  has  come,"  cried  Mrs.  Hilliard,  starting  to 
her  feet  ;  and  at  the  same  moment  the  door  was  openedby 
Ameaud,  and  a  lady  in  a  sparkling  ball-dress  swept  in. 
She  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  looking  from 
face  to  face  with  a  bewildered  air. 

She  was  very  young — scarcely  twenty,  and  unmistakably 
beautiful.  Taller  than  common,  willowy  and  slight,  with 
great,  dark  eyes,  fiowing  dark  curls,  and  a  colorless  olive 
skin.  The  d^kly  handsome  face,  with  pride  in  every  fea- 
ture,  wa^i  blanched  now  almost  to  the  hue  of  the  dying  man's  j 
but  that  glittering  bride-like  figure,  withits  misty  point-lace 
and  blazing  dikmonds,  seemed  in  strange  contradiction  to 
^he  idea  of  deàth. 

"My  lady  I  my  lady  I  "  cried  Mrs.  Hilliard,  with  a  sup 
jressed  sob,  moying  neax  her. 


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S/H  NOËL  s  DE  A  TH  BED. 


249 


The  deep,  dark  eyes  turned  upoh  het  for  an  instant, 
then  wandered  back  to  the  bed  ;  but  she  never  moved. 

*f  Ada,"  said  Sir  Noël,  faintly,  "  come  hère,  l'he  rest  o£ 
you  go.    1  want  no  one  but  my  wife." 

The  graceful  figure,  in  its  shining  robes  and  jewels 
moved  over  and  dropped  on  its  knees  by  his  side.  The 
other  three  quitted  the  rogm  and  closedthe  door.  Husband 
and  wife  were  alone  with'only  death  to  overhear. 

"  Ada,  my  poor  giri,  only  five  months  a  wife — it  is  very 
hard  on  you;  but  it  seems  I  must  go.  I  hâve  a  great 
deal  to  say  to  you  that  I  can't  die  without  saying.  I 
hâve  been  a- villain,  Ada — ^the  greatest  villain  on  earth  to 
you."  , 

She  had  not  spoken — she  did  not  speak.  Slie  knelt 
besidç  him,  white  and  still,  looking  and  listening  with 
strange  calm.  There  was  a  sort  of  whitêhorror  in  her  face, 
but  very  little  of  the  despairing  grief  onô  would  naturally 
iook  for  in  the  dying  man's  wife. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  Ada — I  hâve  wronged  you 
too  deeply  for  that  ;  but  I  loved  you  so  dearly — so  dearly  l 
Oh,  my  God  !  what  a  lost  and  cruel  wretch  I  hâve  beèh  1  " 

He  lay  panting  and  gasping  for  breath.  There  was  a 
draught  which  Dr.  Gale  had  left  standing  near,  and  he 
made  a  motion  for  it.  She  held  it  to  his  lips,  and  he 
drank  ;  her  hand  was  unsteady  and  spilled  it,  but  still  she 
never  spoke.  ^ 

"I  cannot   speak  loudiy,  Ada,"  he  said,  in  à  husky  - 
whisper,  "my  strength  seems  to  grow  less  every  moment  j 
lut  I  want  you  to  promise  me  before  I  begin  my  story  that 
you  will  dp  what  I  ask.    Promise*  promise  1^ 

He  grasped  het  wrist  and  glared  at  her  almost  fiercely. 


^4ie 


'^Promise!  jTomise  !  " 


|^t^f 


ir 


250 


SIR  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


"  I  promise,"  she  said,  with  white  lips. 

"  May  Heaven  deal  with  you,  Ada  Thetford,  as  you  keep 
that  promise.    Listen  now." 

The  wild  night  wore  on.^  The  criespof  the  wind  in  th'e 
trees  grew  louder  and  wilder  and  more  desolate.  The 
rain  bea^t  against  the  curtained  glass  :  th|^  candies 
guttered  and"  flared  ;  the  wood-fire  flickered  and  died 
eut.  And  still,  while  hour  after  hour  passed,  Ada, 
Lady  Thetford,  in  her  lace  and  silk  and  jewels,  knelt 
beside  4ier  young  husband,  and  Hstened  to  the  dark 
and  shameful  story  he  had  to  tell.  §he  never  once  faltered, 
she  never  spoke  nbr  stirred  ;  but  her  face  was  whiter  than 
her  dress,  and  her  great  dark  eyes  dilated  with  a  horror 
too  intense  for  words.  ^_ ^ 

The  voice  of  the  dying  man  sank  lower  and  lower — it 
fell  to  a  duU,  choking  whisper  at  last. 

"You  hâve  heard  ail,"  he  ;^d,  huskily. 

"AU?"  L 

The  word  dropped  from  her  lips  likj 
look  of  blank  horror  never  left  her  face 

•*  And  you  will  kçep  your  promise  ?  "  ^ 

"Yes." 

"God  bless  you  !  .  I  can  die  now.  Oh,  Ada!  I  cannot 
ask  you  to  forgive  me;  but  I  love  you  so  much — ^so  muchi 
Kiss  me  once,  Ada,  before  I  go." 

His  voice  failed  even  with  the  words.      Lady  Thetford 
bent  down  and  kissed  him,  but  her  lips  were  as  cold  and 
lehite  as  his  own. 
^  They  were  the  last  words  Sir  Noël  Thetford  ever  spoke. 

le  restless  sea  was  suUenly  ebbing,  and  the  soûl  of  the 
was  floating  away  with  it.    The  gray,  chill  light  of  a 
new  day  was  dawning  over  the  Devonshire  fields,  raui) 


ice — the  frozen 


«f- 


SIR  NOErS  DEATH  BED, 


251 


and  law,  and  with  its  first  pale  ray  the  soûl  of  Noël  Thet 
ford,  baronet,  left  the  earth  forever. 

An  hour  later,  Mrs.  Hilliard  and  Dr.  Gale  ventured  to 
enter.  They  had  rapped  again  and  ag^in;  but  there  had 
been  no  response,  and  alarmed  they  had  corne  in.  Stark 
and  rigid  already  lay  what  was  mortal  of  the  Lord  of 
Thetford  Towers;  and  still  on  hér  knees,  with  that  frozen 
look  on  her  facfe,  knelt  his  living  wife.  |f 

"My  ladyl  my  lady  I  "  cried  Mrs.  Hilliard,  her  tears 
falling  like  rain.    "Oh  I  my  dear  lady,^ corne  away  1" 

She  looked  up;  then  again  at  the  marble  forffi  on  the 
bed,  and,  without  word  or  cry,  slipped  back  in  the  old 
housekeeper's  arms  in  a  dead  fàint. 


.-■•■v 


v./>y 


->  ^ 


CHAPTER  II. 


CAPT.    EVERARD. 


T  was  a  very  grand  and  stately  cérémonial,  thaï 
funeral  processîon  from  Thetford  Towers.  A 
week  after  that  stormy'  December  night  they 
laid  Sir  Noçl  Thetford  in  the  f amily  vault,  where 
génération  after  génération  of  his  race  slept  their  lâst  long 
sleep.  The  gentry  for  miles  around  were  there  ;  and 
among  them  came  the  heir-at-law,  the  Rev,  Horace 
Thetford,  only  an  obscure  country  curate  now,  but  failing 
maie  heirs  to  Sir  Noël,  successor  to  the  Thetford  estatc, 
and  fif tcen  thousand  a  year. 

In  a  bed-chamber;  luxurious  as  wealth  can  make  a  room, 
lay  Lady  Thetford,  dangerously  ill.  It  was  not  a  brain 
fever  exactly,  but  something  very  like  it  into  which  she 
had  fallen,  coming  out  of  that  death-like  swoôn.  It  was  ail 
very  sad  and  shocking — the  sudden  death  of  the  gay  and 
handsome  young  baronet,  and  the  serions  illness  of  his 
poor  wife.  The  funeral  oration  of  the  Rev.  Mr,  Knight, 
rector  of  St.  Goiport,  from  the  words,  "  In  thè  midst  of  life 
we  are  in  deathi"  was  most  éloquent  and  impressive  ;  and 
women  with  tender  hearts  shed  tears,  and  men  listened 
with  grave,  saa  faces.  It  was  such  a  little  while,  only 
five  short  months,  since  the  wedding-bells  had  nmg,  and 
(hère  had  been  bonfires  and  feasting  throughout  the  vil- 


.'.j.t-.;v-s--i-J;-.  ,■■■,"  ■  •i.-iiis^'ij'. 


CAPT.  EVERARD. 


253 


lage;  and  Sir  Noël,  looking  so  provd  and  so  happy,  had 
driven  up  to  tHfe  illuminated  hall  with  his  handsome  bride 
Only  five  moiiths  ;  and  no w— and  now.  f 

The  funeral  was  over,  and  everybody  had  gone  hack 
home-^verybody  but   the  Rev.  Horace  Thetford,  who 
lingered  to  see  the  resujt  of  my  lady's  illness,  and  if  slie 
died,  to  take  possession  of  his  estate.     It  was  unutterably 
dismal  in  the  dark,  hushed  old  house  with  Sir  Noel's  ghost 
_  seeming  to  haunt,pery  foom— vefy  dismal  and  ghastly , 
this  waitmg  to  ste^  into  dead  people's  shoes.     But  then 
there  was  fifteen  thousand  a  year,  and  the  finest  place  in 
Devonshire;  and  the  Rev.  Horace  would  hâve  faced  a 
whole  régiment  of  ghosts,  and  liveil  in  a  vault  for  that.    ' 
But  Lady  Thetford  did  not  die.      Slowly  but  surely,  the 
fever^ihat  had  worn  her  to  a  shadow  left  her;  and,  by 
and  by,  when  the  early  primrosès  peeped  through  the  frost 
blackened  earth,  she  was  able  to  corne  down  stairs—to 
corne  down  feeble  and  frail  and  weak,  colorless  as  dcath. 
almost  as  silent  and  cold. 

The  Rev.   Horace  went  back  to  Yorkshire,  yet  not  en 
tire'y  m  despair.     Female  heirs  could  not  inherir  Thetford 
—  he  stood  a  chance  yet;    and  the  pale  young  widow 
was  left  alone  in  the  dreary  oldTnansion.     People  were 
very  sorry  for  her,  and  came  to  see  her,  and  begged  her  to 
be  resigned  to  her  great  loss;  and  Mr.  Knight  preached  ' 
endlcss  homilies  on  patience,  and  hope,  and  submission, 
and  Lady  Thetford  listened  to  them  just  as  if  they  had 
been  talkmg  Greek.    She  never  spoke  of  her  dead  husband 
—she  shivered  at  the  mention  of  his  namr;  but  that  night 
at  his  dying  bed  had  changed  her  as  never  woman  changed 
before.     From  a  bnght,  ambitions,  pleasure-loving  girl. 
=5h&  i^d^r -— -         ••     .   .  -  -  b  6    f 


i|»  haggar(^  hopete^  womaiT 


254 


S/H  NOEDS  HEIR, 


Ail  the  sunny  spring  days  she  sat  by  the  window  of  hei 
boudoir,  gazing  at  the  raffety,  boundtess  sea,  pale  and  mute 
— dead  in  life. 

The  friends  ^ho  came  to  see  her,  and  Mr.  Knight,  (he 
rector,  were  a  little  puzzled  by  this  abnormal  case,  but, 
very  sorry  for  the  mournful  young  widow,  and  disposed  to 
think  better  of  her  thân  ever  before.  It  must  surely  hâve 
been  the  vilest  slander  that  she  had  not  cared  for  her  hus- 
band,  thât  she  had  married  hiin  ôhry  for  hîs  wealth  and 
title  ;  and  that  young  soldier — that  captain  of  dragoons-^ 
must  hâve  been  a  myth.  She  mig^t  hâve  been  engaged 
to  him,  of  course,  before  Sir  Noël  came,  that  seemed  to  be 
an  undisputed  fact  ;  and  she  might  hâve  jilted  him  for  a 
w^lthier  lover,  that  was  ail  a  common  case.  But  she 
must  hâve  loved  her  husband  very  dearly,  or  she  never 
would  hâve  been  broken-hearted  like  this  at  his  loss. 

Spring  deepened  into  summer.  The  June  roses  in  the  * 
flower-gardens  of  Thetford  were  in  rosy  bloom,  and  m/  ^ 
lady  was  ill  again — ^very,  very  ill.  There  was  an  emineti|^; 
physician  down  from  London,  and  there  was  a  frail  lit^îg^  ?v} 
mite  of  babyhood  lying  amongst  lace  and  flannel  ;  an^ 
the  eminent  physician  shook  his  head,  and  looked  portent-"^^ 
ously  grave  as  he  glanced  from  the  crib  to  the  bed. 
Whiter  than  the  pillows,  whiter  than  snow,  Ada,  Lady 
Thetford,  lay,  hovering  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of 
Death  ;  that  other  feeble  little  life  seemed  flickering,  toc 
— it  was  so  even  a  toss-up  between  the  great  rival  powers, 
Life  ahd  Death,  that  a  straw  might  hâve  turned  the  scale 
either  w^y.  So  slight  being  that  baby-hold  of  gasping 
breath,  that  Mr.  Knight,  in  the  absence  of  any  higher 
authorit}',  and  in  the  unconsciousness  of  the  mother,  took 
upon  himseU  to  baptize  it     So  a  china  bowl  was  brought, 


% 


-*• 


•'.'i 


CAPT.  EVERARD. 


255 


p)rise  of  the 

ied.     Sum- 

fy  ôf  Sîf 

le  to  walk 

1  her  vl^raps. 


Bnd  Mrs.  Hilliard  held  the  bundie  of  flannèl,  and  long 
white  robes  and  the  child  was  named-the  name  which 
the  mother  had  said  weeks  ago  it  was  to  be  called,  if  a  boy 
-Rupert  Noël  Thetford  ;  for  it  was  a  maie  heir,  and  tha 
Rev.  Horace's  cake  was  dough. 

Days  went  by^  weeks,  months,  and 
eminent  physician  neither  mother 
--iner  jvanêdL  winter  TêtuHied^;   tht^ 
Noel's  death  came  round,  and  my  la, 
down  stairs,  shiveritjg  in  the  warm  air  .,^..  „.x  ,,^.  w.aps 
She  had  expressed  no  pleasure  or  thankfulhess  in  her  own 
safety,  or  that  of  her  child.     She  had  asked  eagerly  if  it 
were  a  boy  or  a  girl  ;  and  hearing  its  sex,  had  turned  her 
face  to  the  wall,  and  lay  for  hours  and  hours  speechless 
and  motionless.     Yet  it  was  very  dear  to  her,  too,  by  fits 
and  starts.       She  would  hold  it  in   her^arms    half  a 
day,  sometimes    coveringA^it  'ivithXkisses,  with    jealous 
passionate  love,  crying  Qyer%  atid^half  smothering  it  4ith 
caresses  ;  and  then,  again,  in  a  fit  of  sulïen  apathy,  would 
resign  it  to  its  nurse,  and  not  ask  to  see  it  for  hours     It 
was  very  strange  and  inexplicable,  her  conduct,  altogetherj 
more  especially,  as  with  her  return  to  healA  came  n^ 
return  of  cheerfulness  or  hope.    The  dark%oom  thaf 
overshadowed  her  lifç  seemed  to  settle  into  a  chronic  dis- 
ease,  rooted  and  incurable.     She  never  went^out;  she  re- 
turned  no  visits  \  she  gave  no  invitations  to  those  who 
came  to  repeat  theirs.    Gradually  people   fell  olï;  they 
grew  tired  of  that  sullen  coldness  in  which  Lady  thetford 
wrapped  herself  as  in  a  mantle,  until  Mr.  Knight  àïïd  Dr. 
Gale  grew  to  be  almost  her  only  visitors.^    "  Mariana,  in, 
the  Moated  Grange,"  .never  led  a  more  solitary  and  dreary 
existence  than  the  handsome  ynung  widow,  who  dwelt  a 


"^. 


/rJ 


256  SIR  NOEVS  HEIR.      . 

recluse  at  Thetford  Towers.  F(^r  she  was  very  hartdsonie 
still,  6f  a  pale  moonlight  sort  of  beauty,  the  great,  dark 
eyes  and  abundant  dark  hair,  making .  her  fixed  and 
changeless  pallor  ail  the  more  remarkable. 

Months  and  geasons  went  by.  Summers  followed 
winters,  and  Lady  Thetford  still  buried  herself  alive  in  the 
gray  old  manor — and  the  little  heir  was  six  years  old.  A 
délicate  child  still,  puny  and  sickly,,  petted  and  spoiled, 
indulged  in  every  childish  whim  and  caprice.  His 
raother's  image  and  idol — no  look  of  the  fair-haired,  san- 
guine, blue-eyed  Thetford  sturdiness  in  his  little,  pinched, 
pale  face,  large,  dark  eyes,  and  crisp,'black  ringlets.  The 
years  had  gone  by  like  a  slow  dream  ;  life  was  stagnant 
enough  in  St.  Gosport,  doubly  stagnant  at  Thetford  Towers, 
whose  mistress  rarely  went  abroad  beyond  her  own  gâtes, 
save  when  she  took  her  little  son  out  for  an  airing  in  the» 
pony-phaeton. 

She  had  taken  him  eut  for  one  of  those  airings  on  a 
Jyly  afternoon,  when  he  had  nearly  accomplished  his 
seventh  year.  They  had  driven  seaward  some  miles  from 
the  manor-house,  and  Lady  Thetford  and  her  little  boy 
had  got  out,  and  were  strolling  leisurely  up  and  down  the 
hot,  white  sands,  whilst  the  groom  waited  witfi  the  pony- 
phaeton  juet  within  sight.  ' 

The  long  July  afternoon  wore  oi#  The  sun  that  had 
blazéd  ail  day  like  a  wheel  p£  ^re,  dropped  lower  and 
lower  into  the  crimson  west.  The  wide  sea  shone  red  with 
the  reflections  of  the  lurid  glory  in  the  heavens,  and  the 
numberless  waves  glLttered  and  flashed  as  if  sown  witli 
stars.  A  faint,  far-on  breeze  swept  over  the  sea,  sait  and 
cold  ;  and  the  fishermen's  boats  danced  along  with  the 
red  sunsct  glinting  dfPtheir  sails 


,■<■ 


V 


d 


# 


h 


f 


CAP  T.  EVERARD. 


257 


Ûp  and'down,  slowly  and  thoughtfully,  the  lady  walked. 
ber  eyes  fixed  on  the  wide  sea.     As  the  rising  breeze  met 
her,  she  drew  the  scarlet  shawl  she  wore  over  her  black  silk 
dress  doser  around  her,  and  glanced  at  her  boy.    The 
little  fellow  was  running  over  the  sands,  tossing  pebbles 
mto  the  surf,  and  hunting  for  shells  ;    and  her  eyes  left 
hm  and  wandered  once  more  to  the  lurid  splendor  of  that 
sunset  on  the  sea.     It  was  very  quiet  hère,  with  no  living 
thing  m  sight  but  themselves  ;  so  the  lady's  start  of  aston 
ishment  was  natural  when,  turning  an  abrupt  angle  in  the 
path  leadmg  to  the  shore,  she  saw  a  man  coming  towards 
her  over  the  sands.    A  tall,  powerful-looking  man  of  thirty 
bronzed  and  handsome,  and  with  an  unmistakably  military 
air  although  in  plain  black  clothes.   The  lady  took  a  second 
/^ok,  then  stood  stock  still,  ^nd  gazed.likeone  in  adream 

Themanapproached,lifted  his  hat,  and  stood  silent  and 
grave  before  her. 

"Captain  Everard!"  -  ' 

eZ^H  ^^'^  The^rf-after  eight  years- Captain 
Lverard  once  more."  » 

The  deep  strong  voice  suited  the  bronzed,  grave  face. 
and  both  had  a  peculiar  power  of  their  own.     Lady  Thet- 
ford,  very,  very  pale,  held  out  one  fair  jewelled  hand 
'  Captam  Everard,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  again  » 
He  bent  over  the  little  hand  a  moment,  then  dropped  it. 
and  stood  lookmg  at  her  silent 

Lady^TetdT    *'>""' '^  "-"•    ^oo.  a™  widowed. 


« 


•     ,..'  t 


258 


SIR  NOEVS  HEIR. 


<*• 


-%' 


"  Yes  ;  and  1  hâve  come  home  with  my  little  daughter." 

"  Your  daughter  !    Then  she  left  a  child  ?  " 

"  One.    It  is  on  her  account  I  hâve  come.     The  climate 

killed  her  mother.     I  had  mercy.  on  her  daughter,  and 

hâve  brought  her  home." 
"  I  am  sorry  for  yôur  wife.     Why  did  she  remain  in 

India?" 

"  Because  she  preferred  death  to-leaving  me.  She  loved 
mç,  Lady  Thetford." 

His  powerful  eyes  were  on  her  face — that  pale,  beautiful 
face,  into  which  the  blood  came  for  an  instant  at  his  words. 
She  looked  at  him,  then  away  over  the  darkening  gea. 

"And  you,  my  lady — ^you  gained  the  désire  of  your 
heart,  weaith,  and  a  title  ?  JLet  me  hope  they  hâve  made 
you  ahappy  woman." 

**  I  am  not  happy."  t- 

"  No  ?  But  you  hâve  been — ^you  were  while  Sir  Noël 
lived?" 

"  My  husband  was  vgry  good  to  me,  Captain  Everard. 
His  death  was  the  ^reatest  misfortune  that  could  hâve 
befallen  me." 

"But  you  are  yourig,  you  are  free,  you  are  rich,  you  are 
beautiful.     You  may  wear  a  coronet  next  time." 

His  face  and  glance  were  so  darkly  grave,  that  the 
Covert  sneer  was  almost  hidden.     But  she  felt  it. 

"  I  shall  never  marry  again,  Captain  Everard." 

"  Never  ?  You  surprise  me  I  Six  years — nay,  seven,  a 
widow,  and  with  innumerable  attractions.  Oh  !  you  can* 
not  mean  it."  ' 

She  made  a  sudden,  passionate  gesture — ^looked  at  him, 
then  away. 

"it  is  useless— worse  than  useless,  folly,  madness,  to 


^ 


CAPT.  EVERARD. 


259 


liftthe  veil  from  the  irrévocable  past.  But  don't  you 
thmk,  don't  you,  Lady  Thetford,  that  you  might  hâve  been 
equally  happy  if  you  had  married  meV 

She  made  no  reply.     She  stood  gazing  seaward,  cold 
and  ^till. 

"  I  was  madly,  insanely,  absurdly  in  !»ve  with  pretty  Ada 
Vandeleur  in  those  days,  and  I  think  I  would  hâve  made 
her  a  good  husband  ;  better,  Heaven  forgive  me,  than  I 
ever  made  my  poor  4ead  wife.  But  you  were  w^e  and 
ambitious,  my  pretty  Ada,  and  bartered  your  black  eyts 
and  raven  ringlets  tQ  a  higher  bidder.  You  jilted  me  in 
cold  blood,  poor  love  sick  devil  thaU  was,  and  ,;^igned 
resplendent  as  my  Lady  Thetford.  "^vJ]  you  knew  Jiow 
to  choose  the  better  part,  my  pretty  Ada." 

"Captain  Everard,  I  am  sorry  for4he  past— I  hâve 
atoned,  if  suflfering  can  atone.  Hâve  a  Kttle  pity  and 
speak  of  it  no  more  !"  *^  ■" 

He  stood  and  looked  at  her  silently,  gr^vely.  Then 
iie  said  m  a  voice  deep  and  calm. 

"  We  are  both  free.     Will  you  marry  me  now.  Ada? " 
•      "  I  cannot" 

"ButI  loveyou-I  hâve  always  loved  you.  And  you 
—I  used  to  think  you  loved  me."  ' 

He  was  strangely  calm  and  passionless,  voice  and  glaqôe 
and  face.  But  Lady  Thetford  had  covered  her  face.  aTd 
was  sobbing. 

"I  did— I  do—I  always  hâve!     But  I  cannot  marry* 
you     I  will  love  you  ail  my  life  ;  but  don't,  don^t  ask  me 
to  be  yo-at  wife." 

"As  you  please!"  he  said,  in  the  same  passionless* 
vo.ce.       I  thmk  it  is  best  myself  ;  for  the  George  Everard 
of  tOKlay  is  not  the  George  Everard  who  loved  you  eighl 


m 


rS  HEIR. 


ot  be  happy— I  knôw  tliat.    Ada, 


260 


years  ago 
is  that  yoi 

"  Yes." 

"  I  should  like  \k^  look  at  hiih.     Hère,  my  little  baronet 
I  want  to  sec  you. 

The  boy,  who  hid  been  lookin|;  curiously  at  the  stranger, 
ran  up  at  a  sign  from  his  mother.  The  tall  captain  lifted 
him  in  his  arms  and  gazed  in  his  small,  thin  face,  with 
which  his  bright  tartan  plaid  contrasted  fharshiy. 

"  I^e  hasn't  a  look  of  the  Thetfords.  He  is  your  own 
son,  Ada.    My  little  baronet,  what  is  your  name  ?  " 

"Sir  Rupert  Thetford,"  answered  the  c^ild,  struggling 
to  get  free.     "  Let  me  go— I  don't  TcnoAy  you  !  " 

The  captain  set  Inm  down  with  a  grim  smile  ;  and  the 
boy  clung  to  his  mother's  skirts,  and  eyed  the  tall  stranger 
askance.  '  h 

'*  I  want  to  go  home,  mamma.     l'm  tired  and  hungry." 

"  Presently,  dearest.     Run  to  William,  he  has  cakes  for 
you.     Captain  Everà-d^  I  shall  be  happy  to  hâve  you  at"  "^ 
dinner."        # 

"  Thanks  ;  but  I  must  décline.  I  go  back  to  London 
to-night.    I  sail  for  India  again  in  a  week." 

**  So  soon  !     I  thought  you  meant  to  remain."      ^     , 

"Notjiing  is  further  from  my  intention.  I  merely 
brou^m  my  little  girl  over  to  provide  her  a  home  ;  that  is 
why  I  hâve  troubled  you.  Will  you  do  me  this  kindness, 
Lady  Thetford?" 

"  Take  your  little  girl  ?  Oh  !  most  gladly — most  willing- 

"Thanks.  Her  mother's  people  are  French,  and  I 
know  little  about  them  ;  and,  save  yourself,  I  can  claim 
Criendship  with  few  in  England.     She  will  be  poor;  I 


*^ 


,      -  CAPT:  EV^RARD.  '  261 

»  *  -  '  '  '  , 

hâve  settled  on  her  ail  I  ani  worth— some  tliree  hui%ed  a 
year;  and  yôu,  Lady  Thetford,  you  teach^her,  when 
she  grows  up,  to  catch  a  rich  husband/' 

She  took  no  notiée- of  the  taunt;  she  looked  only  too 
■    happy  to  rendef  hi'm  this  service. 

»  X^m  so  pleased  !     She>ll  be  such  a  nice  companion 
,  for  Rupert.     How  old  is  she  ?  "  ,        , 

"  Neariy  four." 

"  Is  she  hère  ?"  . .,  ' 

♦'No;  sheis  in  London.    I  will  fetch  her  down  in  a 
day  or  two." 

"  What  dp  you  call  Her  ?  *» 

"Mabel— after  her  mother. 
.  Thetford,  I  am  to  fetch  her?" 

"  I  shall  be  delighted.'  But  won't  you  dine  with  me  ?" 
^     '^No.     I  must  catch  the  evening  train.     Farewell,  Lady 
Thetford,   and  many  thanks.     In  three  days  I  will   be 
hère  àgain,"        ,.  '" 

Helifted  his  hat,  and  walked  away.  Lady  Thetford 
watched  him  out  of  sight,  and  then  turned  slowly,  as  she» 
heard  her  Kttle  boy  caîling  to  her  with  shrill  impatience. 
The  red  sunset  had  faded  out  ;  the  sea  lay  gray  and  cold 
,under  the  twilight  sky  ;  and  the-  evening  breeze  was  chill. 
Changes  in  sk^r,  and  sea,  and  land,  told  of  coming  night  • 
and  Lady  Thetford,  shivering  slightly  in  .j^r  rising  wind! 
nurned  away  to  be  driven  home.         \       ^* 


Then  it  is  settled,  Lady 


» 


0 


L  ITT LE 


Il  ■* 


é^ 


ngciaièthird  day  after  thîs  intér- 

JLrmFme  railway  drove  up  the  long, 

ue  leading  to  the  greal^bïlt  en- 

e  Thetford  nransion. ,  /|'|bronzed 

ètiian,  à  nurse,  and  a  little  girl,  occâÉîed  the 

fly,  aoct  Ihe  gçôtleman's  keen,  dark  eyes  wandereiJK|iearch- 

*"g^3^]|'''0und.     Swelling  meadows,  velvety  lawns,  |[oping 

terracëiil  waving  trées,  bright  flower-gardens  quair^fc  old 

.fish-ponws,     sparling    fountains,    a    wooded    park,*-with 

f l^rightly  deer — that  was  what  he  saw,  ail  bathed  in  the\gold- 

en^halo  of  the  summer  sunset.     Massive  and  grand,  the 

old  house  reared  its  gtày  head^  half  overgrown  with  ivy  •" 

;^nd    climbing    roses.       G^udy    peacocks     strutted,  on 

.  '  the  terraces  ;  a  gràceful  gazellfe  flitted  out  for  an  instant 

,  amongst  the  trees  tô  look  at  them,  and  then  lied  in  af- 

fright;  and  the  barking  of  half  a  dozeti  mastiflEs  gre«ted 

^  ■  their  approach  noisily.  .    • 

^V  "  A  fine  place,"  tiiought  Capt.  Everard.    "  My  pretty 

"  Ada  niight  hâve  done  worse-     A  gtand  old  place  for  that 

puny  child  to  inherit.     The  staunch  ôld  warrior^blood  of 

the  l'hetfords.  is  sadly  adulter^ted  in  his  pale  ^^||s,  1 

fancy.    Well,  my  little  May,  and  how  ^re  you  goioAsHke 

allthis?"  .  '   ■ 


■/ 


/' 


4 

11 


'' LTTTLE  MAY.^ 


263 


Vv 


Thechild.  a  bright-faced  littl^reature,  wiA  great,  reât 
less,  sparkhng  eyes,  and  rose-SRn  cheeks,  was  looking 
in  dehght  at  a  distant  terrace. 

^',-^ee,papa!  See  ail  the  pretty  peacocks  J  Look,Ellen/ 
f  to  th^^nurse,  «  three,  four,  five  I    Oh,  how  pretty  I  " 

"Then  Jittle  May  will  like  to  live  hère,  where  she  can 
see  pretty  peacocks  every  day  ?  " 

"  And  ail  the  pretty  flowers,  and  the  water,  and  the  «ttle 
boy-wheré  V  the  little  boy,  papa  ?  »  "  me  iittie 

"  In  the  house-you'Il  see  him  presently  ;  but  you  must 
be  very  good,  little  May,  and  not  pull  his  hair,  and  scratch' 

wuh  Wdl.e  Brandon.     Little  May  must  leari  to  be  good  " 
L;ttle  May  put  one  rosy  finger  in  her  mouth,  andLhër 
head  on  one  s,de  Hke  a  défiant  canaty.    SW  was  ^ne  „ 
the  pretties  httle  fairies  imaginable,  with  her  pale  flaxen 
curls,  sparkhng  light-gray  eyes,  and  a^-bloLm  com" 

iXp;^";:rrhLtr^  --  '-^  -^'^  -  -^' 

LadyThetford  satin  the  long  drawing-room,  affer  her 
sohtary  dmner,  and  little  Sir  Rupert  playtd  with  his  rock-  • 
mg-horse,  and  a  pile  of  picture-books  in  a  remote  corner 
The  young  widow  lây  bâïk  in  thè  violet-velvet  depths  of  a 

«tvedandg,ld«iIounging<hairve,ysimplydressed„bracî 
and  cnmson,   but  looking  ve,y  fair  and  stately  whhal 
Sh    „„  «.tchmg  her  boy  with  a  half  smile  on  her  face 
when  afootmanenteredwith  Captain  Everard's card.  La^ 
Thetfordlookedupe^erly,^^  ^y 

Show  Cap^.»iS»rd(6^t  <fe,.» 
latl  Lh''"^*^,  •  """  ^^^i-    Five  minutes 


^m 


ï^^ 


ï 


# 


Jyk^      ft^ï-tij,. 


264  SIR  NOEVS  HEIR. 

^  "  At  last  1  "  ^aïd  Lady  Thetford^jrising  and  holding  dut 
her  hand  to  her  old  lover,  with  a  smile  that  reminded  hirn 
of  others  days — "  at  last,  when  I  was  growing  tired  wait- 
ing.  And  this  is  your  little  girl — my  little  girl  from  lience- 
fôrth  ?    Conae  hère,  my  pet,  and  kiss  your  hew  mamma." 

She  ben(;i)ver  the  little  one,  kissing  the  pink^heek  and 
rosy  Kps.       ~  / 

"  She  is  fair  and  tiny — a  very  f^iry  ;  but  she  resembles 
you,  nevertheless,  Captain  Everaxd." 

"In  temper — ^yes,"  said  the  captain.  "Youwill  find 
h^r  spoiled,  and  wilful,  cross,  and  capricious,  and  no  end 
'  of  trouble.    Won't  shfe,  May  ?  " 

"  She  will  be  the  bettër  match  for  RupeTton  that  account," 
Lady  Thetford  said,  sn^liiig,  and  unfastening  little  Miss 
Everard's  wraps  witl^  her  own  fair  fingers.  "Corne  hère, 
Rupert,  and  welcope  yôur  new  sister." 

The  young  baronet  approached,  and  di^ifully  kissed 
litUe  May,  who  put  up  her  rose-bud  m.outh  right  willingly. 
Sir  Rupert  Thetford  was  not  tall,  rather  undersized,  and 
délicate  for  his  seven  years  ;  but  he  was  head  and  shoul- 
ders  over  the  flaxeti-haired  fairy,  with  the  bright  gray 
eyes.  ,  ^ 

"I  want  a  ndeon  your  rocking-horse,"  cried  little  May, 
fratemizing  with  him  at  once;  "and  oh!  what  nice 
picture-books,  and  what  a  lot  l  " 

The  children  ran  (&  together  to  their  distant  corner, 
^mnd  Captain  Evferard  sat.down  for  the  first  time.       1 

"You  hâve  not  dinedî,"  said  Lady  Thetford.  "  Àllow 
me  to — '*  her  hand  was  on  the  bell,  but  the  captain  inter 
posed.        ^ 

"  Many  thanks — nolhing.  We  dined  at  the  village  ; 
and  I  leave  again  hy  the  seven-fifty  train.    It  is  past 


<*-■■■-  ;--  -^"-  -W-^  * -^.^^-g 


*'£JTTLE  A/AK'* 

.26s 

seven  now,  so  I  hâve  but  little  time  to  soare      Tf       r 
I         6  /v^u  lo  a  great  deal  of  trouble  •  hnf  lu     > 
.ns,s.  on  bei„g.a.e„  b.c>c  .„  LondoôVo'ig'^:?^  ■  ™^« 

Violent  thret:/"r;.ï,f  t.  f"-"^-  ™*-g  -e 

of  healtii.»  ^  *""  ^''  ™<^h  »  P'rfect  picture 

"Mabel  never  was  ill  an  hour  in  her  lifr  T  k.i-       ., 

I only  hope  she'mavno  ''""°°  «°"^  '"^  "-'^  ™-'d. 

pe>s"he  l^rbe  f  gr^  ""''/  ^""""^  "^  '''    '^^  '  ^  - 
years,  and  cMdTen^eed    k'u "■''''  ^P'^^-^'^f  Wso^n  . 

5at  for  ten.iùnutes_cdnYersing  grav^  ehieflyoa  ^ 

»  12 


;  ■ 


\. 


■# 


'S' 


t 


>'    «l 


•S*? 


'» 


V  r 


% 


266 


AY^. 


^ffEIR, 


,'<^ 


-«i. 


m 


business  mattei|||p^|pjp^^^  little  ^îiy's  annuî(y-r 
not  at  ail  as  theO^df^ronversed  three  days  tefore  by  the 
"sea-side.   Thë#^s  half-past  seven  drew  riear,  the  cajitaia 
arose.        •' 

",  I  must  lo.  I.  will  hardly  be  in^dmg^s  it  is.  Corne 
hère,  littje  May,  ajiti  bid  papa  gjSpPBj^^^     s%    "p-^ 

"  Lçt^papa  corne  to  May,"  responded  hig  daughter,  still 
rockini,^/ "  I  can't  get  ofï."  .      •    %     . 

GaS^&i  Everard  laughed  ;  weht  over,  bent  down  and 
kisseppèr. 

*^i)cà-by,  May  ;  dqn't  forget  papa,  and  leam  to  be  a 
go^Tgirl.      Good-by,  baronet  ;  try  and  grow  strong  and 
tall,^  Farewell,  Lady  Thetford,  with  my  best  thanks." 
<  3he  held  ^  hand,  looking  -  up  in  his  sunburned  face 
with  tears  in  |ier  dark  eyes.  |. 

"We  may  never  meet  again,  Captain  Everard,"  sh 
"  said,  hurriedly.     "  Tell  me  before  we  part  that  you  forgiv" 
mi^rfthe  past.'**%  «     ^  i 

fTxu\y,  Ada,*âk|»d'for  the  first  time.    Xhe  service  you. 
havè  rendered  me  fuUy  atones.      You  should  hâve  been 
my  child's  mother— be  â  mo%r  to  her  now.     Good-by, 
and  God  bless  you  and  yoi#'bô%"  ,j, 

He  stooped  ov^touched  her^chçek  with  Jiis  lips  rever- 
entially,  and  the^as  '^e.  G«ne  forever— never  to 
meet  those  he  left  Irehind  this  side  of  eternity.     , 

Little  May  bore  th|^ss  of  her  papa  and^ufse  with 
■pl#)sophical  indifi&I^S;  her  ne#|)laymatemifficed  for 
-both.  The  children  took  to  oi|é  ano^e*^^^ith  the  jpftd-  ^ 
^Iness  of  childhood— Rqpert  alUhe^jipré>.reacfily  that  j^^* 
had  never  before  had  a  pla}^A|  ôf  his  qwn  yeàrs.  He 
Wàs  njttiM-ally  a  quiçt  child,  SBg  ||pore  for  his^  picture- 
Ix^lt^  aid  his  nurse'l  storiè^than  for  tops,  ot  balls,  or 


'# 


Mm 


■■'Wl- 


}. 


%    -■ 


î- 


*'UTTLE  MAY:' 


26; 


f 


C  ■  *' 


,       «1  "ight  ;  and  ,he  life  „f  Sir  Rii^?,  f  '  'Tu  """■"'"« 

-Oman.  f„°  t^'  S.t  'heTtHr  •"  l"'"  ^"  '"' 
»^rts  of  périls,     si  co"ld    li^b  1  fe  rfa.  or    °'"  "" 

h^,T,^  aade  hersdf  master  o£  the  simationlf 

ioroul,^'""'^^ "  """^  -  «"=  "o-     SH  ta" 
moroughly  JK  comp  etelv  snoileH      wk  ^  t  j. 

had  left  undone,  injudici  o'us  pet^^  aTf flal"  ""T 

homeward   passage/  had    co^Zd    and    he7'r  '"'' 

-vas  somethirtg  appalling.      Her  shr  eWnf  '    P*' 

•he  slightest  contradicUon   ofher  i't     1  "^r"  " 

«aton  tHe  ca;pefa:d'trîrra:Tri^^4^^^^ 

he  face,  until.  i„  dread  of  apoplexy  and  sudl„  !f   .? 

her  frightened  hearers hastened  to^d     Jf  ,„?"  ""*' 

.uch  Victor  ins^red  a.,  ^e  resf.     ^^  L^tj^  °^ 


268  SIR  NOnVS  HEIR. 

fore  she  had  been  a  week  îit  Thetford  Towers,  he  dared 
not  cal.  his  soûl  his  own.  She  had  partially  scalped  him 
<m  several  occasions,  and  left  the  mark  o£  her  cat-like 
nails  in  his  tender  visage  ;  but  her  venomous  power  of 
screeching  for  hours  at  will,  had  more  todo  with  the  little' 
baronet's  dread  of  her  than  anything  else.  He  fled  inglori- 
ously  lin  every  battle — running  in  tears  to  mamma,  and 
leaving  the  field  and  the  trophies  of  victorj'  triumphantly 
to  Miss  Everard.  With  ail  this,  when  not  thwarted— when 
allowed  to  smash  toys,  and  dirty  her  clothes,  and  smear 
her  infantile  face,  and  tear  pictures,  and  torment  inofïen- 
sive  lapdogs  ;  when  allowed,  in  short,  to  follow  "  her  own 
sweet  will,"  little  May  was  as  charming  a  fairy  as  ever  the 
sun  shone  on.  Her  gleeful  laugh  made  music  in  the  dreary 
old  rooms,  such  as  had  never  been  heard  there  for  many  a 
day,  and  her  mischievous  antics  were  the  delight  of  ail 
who  did  not  sufïer  thereby.  The  servants  petted  and  in- 
dulged  her,  and  fed  her  on  unwholesorne  cakes  and  sweet- 
nieats,  and  made  her  vtorse,  and  worse  every  day  of  hei 

life. 

Lady  Thetford  saw  ail  this  witfi^inward  appréhension. 
If  her  ward  was  completely  beyond  her  power  of  control 
at  four,  what  would  she  be  a  dozen  years  hehce.    ^ 

"  Her  father  was  right,"  thought  the  lady.'  "  I  am  afraid 
she  willgwe  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  I  never  saw  so 
headstrong,  so  utterly  unmanageable  a  child." 

But  Lady  Thetford  was  very  fond  of  the  fairy  despot 
withal.  When  her  son  came  rurining  to  her  for  succor, 
drowned  in  tears,  and  bearing  the  marks  of  little  May's 
claws,  his  mother  took  him  in  her  arms  and  kissed  him  and 
soothed  him— but  she  never  t:junished  the  offender.    As 


#__ 


# 


^■■■:^ 


'' UTTLE  MAYr 


269 


fought  back      Little  May  had  the  hair-pulling  and  fact^ 
scratchmg  ail  to  herself.  -  f        5      '"  lace- 

"Imustgetagoverness/'musedLady  Thetford.  "I 
may  find  one  wha'can  control  this  little  v«enj«^nd  it  is 
really  time  that  Rupert  began  his  studies.  I  willlpeak  1 
Mr.  Knight  about  it."  ,.       ^     ^ 

Lady  Thetford  sent  that  veiy  day  to  Ae  rector  her  Jàdv. 
ship  s  compliments,  the  servant  said,  and  wéuld  Mr.  kE 
call  at  his  earhest  convenience.  Mn  Knight  sent  in  an 
^wer  to  expect  him  that  same  evening  ;  and  on  his  way  he 
ell  m  with  Dr.  Gale,  going  to  the  manor-house  on  a  C 
fessional  visit  ^ 

"Little  Sir  Rupert  keepsweakly,"  hesaid;  «noconsti- 
tu  ion  to  speak  of.  Not  at  ail  like  the  Thetford»^ 
splendid  old  stock,  the  Thetfords,  but  run  out-r\in  out. 
S^Rupert  is  a  Vandeleur,inherits  his  mother  s  constitution 
—délicate  child,  very." 

"Hâve  you  seen  Lady  Thetford's  ward?  inquired  the 
clergyman  smiling:  «no  hereditary  weakness  there.  I 
fancy.  1 11  answer  for  the  strength  of  her  hings  at  any  rate. 
The  other  day  she  wanted  Lady  Thetford's  watch  for  a 
playthmg  ;  she  couldn't  hâve  it,  and  down  she  fell  flat  on 
the  floor  m  what  her  nurse  calls  'one  of  her  tantrums.' 
You  should  hâve  heard  her,  her  shrieks  were  appalling  " 

I  hâve,"  said  the  doctor  with  emphasis;  «'«he  has  the 
temper  of  the  old  démon.  '  If  I  had  anything  ta  do  with 
that  child,  I  ,^ould  whip  her  widiin  an  inch  of  her  life— 
that  s  ail  she  wants,  lots  of  whipping.  The  Lord  only  knows 
the  future,  but  I  pity  her  p,fp^^e  husband." 

th^k  S  T°^rf!!?^'^.H  .^"V    Formyp4l 

noA^-unuTtoA  *"  undeitake  suchi 


• 


/" 


270 


SIR  NOEUS  HEm. 


charge.    With  her  délicate  health  itis  altogether  too  much 

forher."  ;  "  \    • 

The  two  gentlemen  were  shown  into  the  library,  while 
the  sefvatit  went  to  inform  his  lady  of  their  arrivai.  J'he 
'library  had  a  Freuch  windowbpening  upon  a  slopinglawn 
and  hère,  chasing  butterflies  in  high  glee,  were  the  two 
children — the  pale,  dark-eyed  baronet,  and  thè.  flaxen- 
tressed  little  Eastlndian." 

"  Look,"  said  Dr.  Gale.  "  Is  Sir  feupert  going  tp  be 
your  Petruchiô?  ^\iO  knows  what  the  future  may  ^p-'^Z 
forth— who  knows  thàt  wg,jdo  ijot  behold  the  future  Lady 
Thetford?"  ^  . 

"  She  is  very  pretty,''^aid*the  rector,  thoughtfuUy,  "  and 
she  may  change  with  years.  Your  prophecy  may  be 
fulfiUedi^'     '        ■     '■ 

The  présent  Lady  Thetford  entered  as  he  spoke.     She 
/had  heard  the  remarks  of  both,  and  there  war  an  unusual 
pillor  and  gravity  in  her  face  a^  she  advanced  to  receive 
tliem.    *  ■/* 

Little  Sir  Rupert  was  éâlled  in,  May  folio wed,  with 
a  butterfly  crushed  to  death  in  each  fat  little  hand. 

♦*She  kills  them  as  fast  as  she  catches  theip,"  said  Sir 
Rupert,  ruefully.     "  It's  cruel,  isn't  iÇ-maram^^ 

Little  May,  quite  abashed,  displaye^  heï^,  d^d  prizeâ^ 
and  eut  short  the  doctor's  conférence  Ly  im>atiently  pull; 
ing  her  plà^fellow  away.,  ■*  ; 

♦*  Corne,  Rupert,  come,"  she  cried.  ""I  want  ta  catch 
the  blaçk  one  with  thr;  yellow  wings.  Stick  your  toftgue' 
eut  and  come."  '^  ,      '^'*v  • 

Sir  Rupert  displayed  his  tongue/  and  submitted  ,bis 
pulsç  to  the  doctor,  and  let  himself  bë  pvilied  away  b:^; 
May.;  .      '    ''  .  ,■     "  ,'         .^ 


\  ' 


/  '«, 


^  •'■^■ 


much 


while 
The 
lawn    4 
e  two 
laxen- 


to  be 
Lady 

* 

"and  ;; 
ay  be         * 


.\  ' 


She 
nilsual 


eceive 


,  with 


id  Sir 


prizés^  ♦ 

y  pull;     /  ^  , 

catch 
toiïgue'  ~   '  '>♦■ 


(^APT.  EVERARD.    ^  % 

271 

"The  gray  mare  in  that  team  is  decidedly  the  bette, 

When  her  visitors  had  left,  LadyThetfordwalkedlo  & 

sunshme     Itwas  ,  pretey  sjght,  but  the  lady's  (ace  was 
contracted  with  a  look  o£  pain  ^  " 

<;J'*1',''k"  ?°  """"Sl-t-    "I  hope'ndt-I  pray  „* 
Stangel    but  I  never  thought  o£  the  possitilirbefôrt 

,  .?niotner,  it  tnàt  day  €ver  coines  1  "       .    '    -" 


t^;.' 


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f  . 

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r. 


À*' 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MRS.    WEYMORE. 


4i 


ADY  THETFORD  had  settled  her  business 
satisfactorily  with  the  rector  of  St.  Gosport. 

"  Nothjgg  could  be  more  opportune,"  he  said. 
"  Ifltfng^ng  to  l^ondon  next  week  on  business, 
which  will  detai^i  mq  upwards  o£  a  fortnight.  I  wiU  im 
mediately  advertise  for  such  a  pêrson  as  you  want." 

"  You  must  understand,"  said  her  ladyship,  "  I  do  not 
require  a  young  girl.  I  wish  a  middle-aged  person — a 
widow,  for  instance,  who  has  had  children  of  her  own. 
Both  Rupert  and  May  are  spoiled — May*,  particularly  is 
pérfectly  unrtianageable.  A  young  girl  as  governess  for 
her  would  never  do." . 

Mr.  Knight  departed  with  thèse  instructions,  and  the 
foUowing  week  started  for  the  great  metropolis.  An  ad- 
vertisement  was  at  once  inserted  in  the  Times  liewspaper, 
stating  ail  Lady  Thetford's  requirements,  and  desiring  im 
médiate  application.  Another  week  later,  and  £^dy  Thet 
ford  received  the  following  communication  : 
^"  Dear  Lady  THErFORi>— I  hâve  been  fairly  besieged 
with  applications  for  the  past  week — ail  widows,  and  ail 
professmg  to  be  thoroughly  compétent.  Clergyraen's  wid 
ows,  doctor's  widows,  officer's  widows-^j^l  sorts  of  wid- 
ows.     I  never  before  tho^ght  so  maj^puld  apply  for 


irs-^^1 
aj^fti 


•      ^RS.  WEYMOHE 

.nd  .he  4est  reT^rjof  ^3^^ 7  ""^ 
She  has  lost  a  child   shi»  t^iic  ,  employers. 

and  «anner  a,,<^jt  tsl:'l74:lfr  ""  '»<"" 

conversant  with  misfortûne     She  wm  1  l  *  P"^" 

-next  week-her  nan,e  is  Me;::,";:.""  "'*  "^  '"'' 

so^te^'tto  jr,!*':,!:';:™"'*  "^r-  ^'^  °'  -'-*- 

ard  .h.  sa.e  da.'t  ^rounc^'  .^ ^LSCJû!''^" 

he.  and  W  luggage  «o  ThtaL'Tw    r.rr,:;^' 
noon,  and  she  was  fat^n  ,*         *"wers  late  ip  the  after- 

been'preparedflr  hef„hUst°.r        "  """■  "■''  '''«' 
Lady  Thetford  of  her  arriva  '  '"'  "™"'  "•=■«  ">  '»"'™ 

»■  and  ::i:::^::ri^!  "-  "';\-  --:'!:'.''":r 


f-  ^ 


T- 


*  ■ 


274 


SIF  NOEVS  HEIR. 


than  my  lady  Tiêrself,  and  eminently  good^oking.    The 

tall,  slender  figure,  clad  in  widow's  weeds,  was  as  sym- 

metrical  as  Lady  Thetford's  own,  and  the,#ull  black  dress 

set  ofï  the  pearly  fairness  ôf  the  blonde  skin^  atid  the  rich 

"   abundance  of  fairiiair.     Lady  Thetford's  brows  contract- 

'    ed  a  little^  this  fair,  subdued,  gentle-looking,  giclish  young 

woman^was  hardly  the  ^tron^mhided,  middle-aged  ma- 

•.  tron»she  had  expected  to  take  the  nonsense  out  of  obstrep- 

erous  May  Everard.        .y  '  - 

"Mrs.  Weymofe,  I  belieVë," said  Lady  thetford, resum- 
ing  hex  fauteuil,  "  pray  be  seatdd.  "  I  wished  tp  see  you  at 
once,  because  I  am  going  out  this'evening.  You  hâve  had 
five  years'  expérience  J^.  a  nursery-goverftess,  Mr.  Knight 
tellsme?"  . 

"^     "  Yes,  Lady  Thetford.^'  ^ 

There  was  a  Uttle  tremor  in  .Mrs*^Weymore's  low  voice, 
and  her  blue  eyes  shifted  and  fell  unçler'Lady  Thetford's 
steady,  and  somewhat  haughty  gaze.     7  - 

"  Yet  you  look  young — much  younger  than  I  iniagined, 
or  wished."  '    \. 

,  **  I  am  twenty-seven  years  oM,  my  iady." 

That  was  my  lady's  own  âge  preéisely,  bat  she  looked 
haif  a  dozen  years  the  eldér  of  the  two. 

**  Are  you  a  native  of  London  ?  "      - 
"   "  No,  my  lady— of  Berkshire."  '        ' 

"  And  you  hâve  been  ^  widow,  how  long  ?  " 

What  ailed  Mrs.  Wèymore?  She  was  ail  white  arïd 
trembling— even  her  hands,  folded  and  pressed  togethei 
in  lipr  }ap,  shook  in  spite  of  her.  ^      'w.;  ^     • 

♦^Eight  years  and  more."  **  4f  ^ 

She  said  it  with  a  sort  of  sob,  hysteflc^lly  choked.  Lady 
Thetford  looked  on  surprised^an4  a  triftie  displeased.  She 


%■ 


MRS.  WEYMORE.  ^L. 

was  a  very  proud  woman,  and  certainly  wisted  fnr  n« 
scepe  with  ber  hired  dependents.  7  ""'  "^ 

"Ofle,  mylady."        - 

"  Is  it  long  ago  ?  " 

"  When— when  I  lost  its  father  "  '  "^ 

■  "Ah  I  both  together?  That  was  rather  hard.  f dl  T 
hope  you  understand  tbe  management  of  children-^n^il 

ctrorw '  m"""^  "^  ^'^  ^^^^°"  ^^^^^ 
i-nargeot.- Kupert— May,  corne  hère." 

The_  chiidren  came  over  from  their  corner.    Mis  Wev 
«.ore  drew  May  .owards  her,  but  Sir  Rupert  h*îo!t  ' 

Knilf  H  ;'y --'d-this  is  my  aon.  I  p "«^^Mr 
Kn  ght  bas  told  you.  If  you  can  subdue  tbe  temner  o£ 
«lat  ch,ld,  you  wiU  prove  yourself,  iudeed,  a  treasurê  Thf 
e^C  parlor  bas  been  fitted  up  for  yôur'  use  /  tb  "hXn  ^ 
take  tbe.r  „,eals  ftere  ^th  you  ;  ,he  room  adjoiX  if  " 
be  tbe  school-room.  I  h.ve  appointed  one  ci  ftelai^ 
.owa.t  onyou.    I  trust  you  fiud  your  cbao.Srtl;S 

"  Exceedingly  90,  my  lady."     '      " 
J^And  the  terms  prgposèct  by  Mrt  Knighf  suityou  ?«        ' 
^^M.sWeymorebo^ed.    Lady  Tbetford  rose  Jdose  ^ V 

ties  commence.»   ^^^  ^"^^    To-morrowyour  d^-  ., 


governés,  fo  fhf.  ,?j>gt  paii0i  an^  tu  i^ee  to  faei 


A» 


„  »r. 


^"■' 


■^tf^' 


.  »  ■  ■       ••  •'  •        * 


276 


SIR  NOEVS  HEIR, 


j«,^ 


; 


wants,  and  then  to  send  nurse  for  the  children.     Pifteen 
minutes  after  she  drove  away  in  the  pony-phaeton  ;  whilst 
the  new  govemess  stood  by  the  window  of  the  east  parlor 
and  watdied  her  vanish  in  the  amber  haze  of  the  Augiist 
ïfenset. 

Lady  Thes&rd's  business  in  St.  Gosportdetairtéd  her  a 
ouple  of  hcmrs.  The  big,  white,  August  modn  was  rising 
as  she  drove  slowiy  homeward,  and  the  nightingales  sanc^,. 
îheir  vesper  lay  in  the  sceated  hçdge-rows.  As  she  passea'? 
the  rectory,  she  saw  Mr.  Kaight  leaning  over  his  pwn  gâte, 
enjoying  the  placid  beauty  of,  the  summer  evemng  ;  and 
Lady  Thetford  reined  in  her  ponies  to  speak  to  him. 

"  So  happy  to  see  your  ladyshîp.  Won't  you  alight 
and  corne  in  ?     Mrs.  Knight  will  be  deliglited." 

"  Not  this  evening,  I  think.  Had  you  much  trouble 
about  my  business  ?  " 

"  I  had  applications  enough,  certainly,"  iaughed  the  rec- 
tor.  "  I  had  reason  to  remember  Mr.  Ayeller's  immortal 
advice,  *  Beware  of  widders.''  How  do  yoii  like  your  gov- 
emess ?  " 

"  I  hâve  hài;dly  had  time  to  form  an  opinion.  She  îs 
younger  thaii  I  should  désire." 

"  She  looks  much  younger  than  the  âge  she  gives,  I 
know;  but  that  is  a  common  case  l  trust  my  choice  will 
prove  satisfactory — her  références  are  excellei\t.  Your 
ladyship  has  had  an  inteiview  w^th  her  ?  * 

"  A  very  brief  one  Her  mannei  itruck  me  unpleasant- 
ly-— «G  odd,  and  shy,  «ad  nervinu  l  baiUly  know  how 
to  characterize  it  ;  but  she  may  ï>e  a  paragon  of  gt>vemesses, 
for  «tl  that.  Good-«vening  ;  best  regards  to  Mrs.  Knight, 
Call  soon  and  see  how  yo\xx protègi  gets  on." 

Lady  Thetford  drove  away.     As.  she  ali^hted  from  th€ 


■-'M 


A" 


•*.: 


■   '  '  MSS,    IVEYUORE.  ' 

^  pony-carriage  ai^  asc^nded  the  CTeat  fr„„»    .        ' 
.  house  she  sa„  the  pa,X„ve  ^l"^^^,      eat  d  afc    •" 

ter.,  y  ^  ^o.  the  matter  with  tb^  „oman,    I  f  on't  like 

the  firVléek  sh?ha7'  '^™^  i  ""■""efore  the  end  J^ 
r'her  and  ™We  togt tr  The  "J^'"'"*^"'  "'» 
erness  s<k,„  had  theCof  aifa  C"d  t"  '""^  ^°"- 
"s  mistress,  from  MrsHili^J  .Z  -  ^""'^'^''^'«^''Pt 
«own.    She'„as3o1ol"o^Ltd t^'f '^  >^o,^keep!r, 

°f  settled  sadness  on  her  pLe  L^    "«<' "Pt^sion 
eveiy  heart.     She  had  ftfll  ■  .  '  """"^  "^  "ay  to 

".ey  took  theirteaÏ  Jrhh^rlrV^r.'"''^  "°"' 

"■e  governess  sat  aTonT  „le  et?  "?='  ^  ™^  '«ly.' 
-l-amilyatthes„mn,e"Uds?;'^"P-'-.  '~!!'"S  °« 
Ihoughts.  "^'^^e?'.^ 'tn  her  own  brooding 

One  evening,  when  she  had  been  at  Tl,.,f    j  ^ 
»ver  a  forinight,  Mrs  Hilliarrf.  Thetford  Towera 

dreamily  by  he  sT  ne^h'    '     T^  ■»•  f»™d  her  sity      . 

«ver  for  the  day  '^"*'°g-^°°'".  »»d  her  dutieg  we.. 


/ 


\ 


V 


^ 


■*^ 


h 


278  .  Sm  NOEUS  HEIR. 

,i  **I  am  afraid  you  don't  maJce  yourself  at  home  hère/' 
said  the  good-natured  housekeeper;  '*you  stay  too  much 
àlone,  ançj^it  isn't  good  for  young  people  like  you."  , 

"  L^m  us^  to  solitude,"  replied  the  governess,  with  a 
BiT^  th^t  çfedçd  in  a  sigh,  "  and  I  hâve  grown  to  like  it. 
^        Will  you  talce  a  çeat  ?  "  ^ 

"  No,"  said  MrS.  Hilliard.  "  I  heard  you  say  the  othet 
day  you  would  like  to  go  over  the  house  ;  so,  asï  hâve  a 
couple  of  hours'  leisurè,  I  will  show  it  to  you  now." 

The  governess  rose  eagerly. 

*'I  have^  been  wanting  to'  see  it  so  much,"  she' said, 
**/but  I  feared  to  give  trouble  by  asking.  It  is  very  good 
of  you  to  think  of  me,  dear  Mrs.  Hilliard." 

"  She  isn't  much  used  to  people  thinking  of  her,"  rç- 
flected  the  housekeeper,"  or  she  wouldn't  be  so  grateful 
for  trifles.  Let  me  seé,"  aloud,  "»yoU  hâve  9eenv.j:he  draw- 
;  iug-room,  and  the  library,  and  that  is  ail,  except  your  own 
apartments.  Well  coçne  this  way,-  l'il  show  you  the  old 
south-wing." 

Through  long  corridors,  up  wide,  i)lack,  slippery  staî#^ 
cases,  into  vast,  unused  rooms,  where  ghostly  echoes  and 
darkness'  had  it  ail  to  themselves,  krs.  Hilliard  led  the  - 
governeSs.  v  ^     ' 

vs  "  Thèse  apartments  hâve  been  ùnusèd  since.bèfore  the  < 
late  Sir  Noel's  time,"  saW  Mrs.  Hilliard  ;  "  hi^ather  kept 
them  full  kl  the  hvmting  season,  and  at  Christmas  time. 
Since  Sir  Noel's  death,  my  lady  has  shut  herself  up  ayd 
received  no  company,  and  gone  nowhere.  She  is  begin- 
ning  to  go  eut  more  of  Jate  than  she  has  »dojie  ever  sincc 
his  death."        .  _       .  , 

Mrs.  Hilliard  was  not  looking  at  the  jgovemess,  or  she 
might  hâve  been  surprised  at  the  nervotts  resllessness  and 


tl 

h 

\ 

0 

^ 

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yc 

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th 

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to 

the 

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MRS.    WEYMORE. 


27$ 


agitation  of  her  manner,  as  she  listeneH  ^c  f», 

monplace  remarks        ^  "      ^"^  ^^^''  ^^O'  c°"»' 

fui  night     This  is  thêT,irt-h    '''''"  ."'=\''  '»■■«<"  ">at  dread- 

-  .aU  a„d  d::::;:rrr^^^^^^^^^  «'-- 

round  at  the  vast  wildérne^s  of  a  room.         ''"'">'  '""""^l 
'       4™  rn^"'  ',''V"'=  '"  ''°^'  "'^">  "h^"  he  died- 

;^:^™:^i/i;:re:ed'?o\"^--"V-^^"-- 
:  %  M,  ja,  3h„.  q"C;\r;  iri^d 

then  we  went  in Dr  ci^\^       j  '■urée,  nours,  and 

-a.  s.,  ,,4"    PoX  Terras    raX/"^^" 

Mrs  wey.te;;'^;rr.:  ::'r^-«  "••  ^-  ^-  -'«.  • 

Everwhing  rehfain^ju    I^  l^  T„  ^■■,'^-'  *«•  '•-»• 


-> 


"  :  :^'#i^' 


tW 


280  SIRifOEVS  HEIR. 

tinie  it  was;  but  you  do  know,  poor  dear,  you  hâve  lost 
a  husband  yourself."  ,  •  . 

The  tpverness  flung  up  her  hands  before  her  face  with 
a  supprSfeisob,  so  full  o£  anguish  tkat  the  housekeeper 
stared  at  her  aghast.     Almost  as  quickly  she  recovered 

herself  again.  -ut       .* 

"  Don't  mind  me,"  she  said,  in  a  choking  voice,  I  can  t 
help  it.  You  don't  know  what  I  suffered— what  I  still 
suffer.    Oh,  pray,  don't  mind  me." 

«Certainly  not,  my  deai^,"  said  Mrs.  Hilliard,  thinkmg 
inwardly  the  governess  was  a  very  odd  person  indeed. 

They  lo(^d  at  the  billiarâ-room,  where  the  tables  stood, 
dusty  andJ^Ééd,  and  the  Jballs  lay  idly  by. 

"  I  d^^Hv  when  it  will  be  used  again,"  said  Mrs. 
HilliarMHfeps  not  until  Sir  Rupert  grows  up.  There 
wî^s  a  tim^^^ring  her  voice,  "  when  I  thought  he  would 
never  live  to  be  as  old  a^d  strông  as  he  is  now.  He  was 
the  punyist  bâby,  Mrs/VVeymore,  you  ever  looked  at— no- 
body  thought  he  would  îive.  And  that  would  hâve  been 
a  pity,  you  kno^^,  fot  iie  Thetford  estate  would  hâve 
gone  to  a  distant  branch  o£  the  family.  As  it  would,  too,  if 
Sir  Rupert  had  been  a  girl."  ,    .,,. 

She  wént  up  stairs  to  theinhabited  part  of  the  buildmg, 
fbUowed  b/Mrs.  Weymore,  who  seemed  to  grow  more  and 
more  agitated  withevery  word  the  old  housekeeper  said. 

"■  This  is  Sir  Noel's  room,"  said  Mrs.  Hilliard,  in  ail 
awe-struck  whisper,  as  if  the^dead  man  still  lay  there  3  "  no 
ohe  ever  enters  hère  but  me." 

She  unlocked  it,  as  she  spoke,  and  went  in.    Mrs.  Wey 

more  followed  with  a  face  of  frightened  pallor  that  struck 

even  the  housekeeper. 

=*^Good graciousitte+  -Mrs*  Weymore^ 


the  mat- 


i 


AfJ^S.    WEYMORE. 

Mrs.  Weymore's  reply  was  almost  inaudiblej^e  ,fn,>^ 
on  he  threshold,  pallid,  tren^bling,  unaccouM;:^^^^^ 
The  housekeeper  glanced  at  her  suspiciously^^  ' 

Very  odd,"  she  thou^ht  "  verv  i     ^\.^ 
is  ei,he.  the  .ost  nLu's  pers„?i'evI':rorX"""' 
^^e  can.  hâve  k„o™  s,>  Noël  i„  his  vLtT Êu^^:;. 

They  left  the  chamber  after  a  cursory  glance  around 

"  andlfn°T  n  ''''  P'^^^^-g^»^n^'"  said  Mrs.  Hilliard 
and  then,  I  beheve,  you  wiH  hâve  se^n  aii  fk  .  .    "^"^^ 

hand  ;  and  judges  in  g„w„  and  wig.    There  we^r^- 

rrster„d:ïr"'''^t^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

was  s.  Koel,  a^a^-ha^ed^^K.:  r  STf^tr 
e^"     "  rndTv"  'r-  ^"'  ^  Xappyradince  i^  h L  b  ^• 

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282 


SIR  NOEVS  HEIR. 


she  was  the  most  beautiful  créature.  I  ever  looked  at.  Ah  ! 
it  was  such  a  pity  he  was  killed  I  suppose  they'U  Ife 
having  Sir  Rupert's  taken  next  and  hung  beside  her.  He 
don't  look  much  like  the  Thetfordl'j  he's  his  mother  over 
again — a  Vandeleur,  dark  and  stiil.'' 

If  Mrs.  We)anore  made  any  reply,  the  housekeeper  did 
not  catch  it  ;  she  was  standing  with  her  face  averted,  hardly 
looking  at  the  portraits,  and  was  the  first  to  leave  the  pic- 
ture-gallery. 

There  were  a  few  more  rooms  to  be  seen — a  dfawing- 
room  suite,  now  closed  and  disused  ;  an  ancient  library, 
with  a  wonderful  stained  window,  and  a  vast  echoing  re- 
ception-room.  But  it  was  ail  over  at  last,  aqd  Mrs.  Hîlliard; 
with  her  keys,  trotted  cheerfully  ofE  ;  and  Mrs.  Wejrmore 
was  left  to  solitude  and  her  own  thoughts  once  more. 

A  strange  per^n,  certainly.  She  locked  the  door  and 
fell  down  on  hçrkÂees  by  the  bedside,  sobbing  until  her 
whole  form  was  convùfeed. 

"  Oh  !  why  did  I  come  hère  r  Why  did  I  come  hère  ?  " 
came  passionately  with  the  wild  storm  of  sobs.  "  I  might 
bave  known  how  it  would  be  !  Nearly  nîne  years— nine 
long^  long  yeaii,  ani  net  to  hâve  forgotten  yet  1  " 


% 


CHAPTER  V.       ' 

A  JOURNEY  TO  LOl^DON. 

was  tharI;T:"y„e!ta,he7r"':''  ''■^"«'' 
or,^  ^  J'     ">  weni  ratJîer  more  mto  societv, 

■     Played  forX  mt  LrtV    ^'^W'^»-  "ad 

as  Of  old.  IT^ere'^hf'dTera^tn"  ™;°r,  ""'  "^"'^^ 
precedented  event  now  at  TheZrd  T  ^  ~^"  """ 
weeds,  wom  so  Ion„  l,,^  k     "*"°™   Towers;    and  the 

«a.ely,  a„d  gracious,  al  a  ycita"  "'^  "'^"f "''  """ 
reason  of  the  sudden  chan^  buf  ^h'  °"°  ''"™  ">* 

i-.as  U.ey  found  i,  a„d  ^down^pTr^fo'  "'  '^?' 
.  caprice.  '  P^^^^Ps,  to  woman's 

So,  sFôwIy  the  summer  na«;«!PH  .  o.  * 

and  it  was  Decemb.Ta^rht'nnr"  """"""'"'' 
Koel's  sudden  death.  ann.versay  of  Sir 

'  A  gloomy,  day— wet,  and  bleakly  cold       Th.      •  ^ 
sweepmg  over  the  angry  sea,  surJÀ      T  *  *""'' 

^.ses;  and  ^l-.Î:.Z  ^^',^  ZT' 'r'"''<^ 

'  °'^"'  ""^  y^»"  »e°>  that  had  been  Sir  Noem^^f, 


mn 


284 


SIR  NOEVS  HEIR. 


In  Lady  Thetford's  boudoir  a  bright-red  coal-fire  blazed. 
Pale-blue  curtams  of  satin  damask  shut  out  the  wintei 
prospect,  and  the  softest  and  richest  of  bright  carpets 
hushed  every  footfall.  Before  the  fke,  on  a  little  table, 
'  my  lady's  breakfasttemptingly  stood  ;  the  silver,  old  and 
quaint  ;  the  rare  ^ntique  porcelain  sparkling  in  the  ruddy 
firelight.  An  easj(-chair,.carved  and  gilded,  and  cushion- 
ed  in  azuré  velvet,  Stood  by  the  table  ;  and  near  my  lady's 
plate  lay  the  letters  ^nd  papers  the  moming's  mail  had 
brought.  . 

A  toy  of  a  clock  on  the  làw  marble  mantel  chimed  musi- 
cally  ten  as  my  lady  entered.  In  her  dàinty  morning 
fiegligécy^xûi  her  dark  hair  rippling  and  falling  low  on  her 
neck,  she  looked  very  young,  and  fair,  and  graceful.  Ee- 
hind  her  came  her  maid,  a  bloonting  ^nglish  girl,  who  took 
ofï  the  covers,  and  poured  out  my  lady's  chocolaté. 

I^ady  Thetford  s^nk  languidly  into  the  az^^yelvet 
depths  of  her  chair  and  took  up  her  letters.  ^!)^^Br  were 
three — one,  a  note  from  her  man  of  busines^^ne,  an 
invitation  to  a  dinner-party  ;  and  the  third,  a»  big  official- 
looking  document,  with  a  huge  seal,  and  no*  end  of  post- 
marks.  The  languid,eyes  suddenly  ligjited  ;  the  pale  cheeks 
flushed  as  she  took  it  eagerly  up.  It  was  a  letter  frora 
India  from  Captain  Everard. 

Lady  Thetford  sipped  her  chocolaté,  and  read  her  letter 
leisurely,  with  her  slippered  feet  on  the  shining  fender, 
It  was  a  long  letter,  and  she  read  it  over,  slowly,  twice,  three 
times  before  she  laid  it  down.  She  fînished  her  breakfast, 
motioned  her  maid  to  remove  the  service,  and  lying  back 
in  her  chair,  with  her  deep,  dark  eyes  fîied  dreamily  on  the 
.fire,  she  fell  into  a  rêverie  of  othér  days  far  gone.  The 
lover  of  her  girlhood  came  back  to  her  from  over  the  sea. 


J 


r". 


70UR.VEY  TO  LONDON. 


285 
Hewaslyingather  feet  once  more   in  fh«  » 
.     da>s.  under  the  waving  trees  of  IrL  h     l   T^  '""^'"'' 

'  "^^^^^^^^^^^^  z. 

those  dreams  now  '  Cht'-  "''^«"y  ^  "  w°r.e  «an  vain 

I  loved.    AndloTtL^'ord^f  har/thlT"^'  .^  ■"^" 
thesplendor  of  mv  ne»  lif„  ^^    !  «"«"ght  would  die  in 

is  nine  years  tootoe  "         '    '  '"°"«"  '"='"  ""-»d  it 

the  closely-printed  co L™"  T'  "'"''"^''  "'""'«^'y  "ver 
whitening  cheekf    A^ ,K   !  '^^^f  "'*  ''''^'^d  ^X"  and 

ad.rtisei:t::  was  o  e  ti^^rhl:  r'^r  "''"^™^'  -  ' 

devoured.  "       *"  "™"«''  ^yes  literally 

ml"g?;fTri"MrXt  'T^"'"''  "  "^'^  '"fan, 

«N,..;waddi„g.^''srt;ir«;v''--«- 
~rnt:-2--^^^^^^        this , 


1  »-      _.^iï*'      (, 


'V'^i^i'"" 


3^ 


57^  NOEVS  HEIR. 


V 


"  At  last  I  "  she  thought,  "  at  last  it  has  corne.  1  fancied 
ail  danger  was  over — that  death,  perhaps,  had  forestalled 
me  ;  and  now,  after  ail  thèse  years,  I  am  suminoned  to 
keep  my  broken  promise  !" 

The  hue  of  death  had  settled  on  her  face  ;  she  sat  cold 

and  rigid,  staring  with  that  blank,  fixed  gaze  into  the  fire. 

'     1         Ceaselessly  beat  the  rain  j  wilder  grew  the  December  day  ; 

steadily  the  moments  wore  on,  and  still  she  sat  in  that  fixed 

^  i^    *trance.    The  ormolu  clock  st|uck  two— the  sound  aroused 

\       her  at  last. 

1        ;  "  I  must  !  "  she  said,  sétting  her  teeth.    "  I  will  !    My 
r\      toy  shall  not  lose  his  birthright,  corne  what  may." 

1      )  She  rose  and  rang  the  bell — very  pale,  but  quite  calm. 
1  I  Her  maid  answered  the  summons. 

I  I      "  Eliza,"  my  lady  asked,  "  at  what  hour  does  the  after- 
I  noon  train leave  St.  Gosport  for  London ?" 

Eliza  stared — did  not  know  ;  but  would  ascertain.  In 
five  minutes  she  was  back. 

1     "  At  half-past  three,  my  lady  ;  and  another  at  seven." 
»     Lady  Thetford  glanced,  at  the  clock — it  was  a  quarter 
pasttwo. 

**  Tell  William  \o  hâve  the  carriage  at  the  door  at  a 
quarter-past  three  ;  and  do  you  pack  my  dressing-case,  and 
the  few  things  I  shall  need  for  two  or  three  days'  absence. 
I  am  going  to  London." 

Eliza  stood  for  a  moment  quite  petrified.  In  ail  the 
nine  years  of  her  service  undèr  my  lady,  no  such  order  as 
this  had  ever  -been  received.  To  go  to  London  at  a 
moment's  notice — my  lady,  who  rarely  went  beyond  her 
own  park  gâtes  1  Tuming  away,  not  qtrfte  certain  that  her 
cars  had  not  deceived  her,  my  lady's  voice  arrested 
her. 


<i\  j^'^'^ 


■jA>>Siiâ-fc,.' 


^^^. 


*%»'. 


rli,. 


28; 


i«  pSg"^^'^- '»  -  ^  and  do  you'loJ,  .,  ,1' 

-  during  her  absence     Thr„L°"'"'""«   ">e  childre.^ 
a"dshewasagai„,alone  ^°'""'"'  """'  dismisse.1, 

I^Xfd^^f  ::tCaul*^  »:-^s.o™.Lad. 

■h-e-«.y  train  .othe  me,  „;^sL'™^'°  ^'"^''  '"^ 
™th  no  message  to  anv  „n!       ,   ^''^  "=■«  "«atlended  ; 

back  in  .hree  dfys  1  .hTtahesT  '  "^'"«  ^"^  "^'"''  >« 

In  that  dull  hous^h^?^     u 

«.e  stagnant  quTeUhL'suddr'^"'^'"'^  everdisturbed 
describable  sensation  C.;  J?"T  P""""^^  an  in- 
'0  I-ondon  a,  a  n-o^nt-s^ot LeT  SoJ'^  '■^''-  "-^  'ady 
must  hâve  been  to  force  her  ou,  „f  ,7  7^""  '''^""'  " 
■■>  which  slie  had  buried   h.     «  ^'"""y  ^«'"«ion 

dMth.    Bu^  discuss  itT,  ?..  "  "'"^*  ''''  husband', 

•earer  ,he  lU  <.f  i,  ^^l^^^'^""'  "'^y^^'^d  corn,  J 


Kl 


,-    f- 


CHAPTER  VI. 


.GUY. 


HE  rainy  December  day  closed  in  a  rainier 
night.  Another  day  dawned  on  the  world,  sun- 
less,  and  chiliy,  and  overcast  still. 
It  dawned  on  London  in  murky,  yellow  fog, 
on  sloppy,  muddy  streets^ — in  gloom  and  dreariness,  and  a 
raw,  easterly  wind.  In  the  densely  populated  streets  of 
the  district  of  Lambeth,  where  poverty  huddled  in  tall, 
gaunt  buildings,  the  dismal  Hght  stole  murkily  and  slowly 
over  the  crowded,  fUthy  streets,  and  swarming  purlieus. 

In  a  smiall  upper  room  of  a  large  dilapidated  house,' 
this  bad  December  morning,  a  painter  stood  at  his  easel. 
The  room  was  bare,  and  cold,  and  comfortless  in  the  ex- 
trême ;  the  painter  was  middle-aged,  small,  brown,  and 
shrivelled,  and  very  much  out  at  elbows.  The  duU,  gray 
light  fell  fuU  on  his  work — no  inspiration  of  genius  by  any 
means — only  the  portrait,  coarsely  colored,  of  a  fat,  well- 
to-do  butcher's  daughter  round  the  corner.  The  man 
was  Joseph  Legard,  scene-painter  to  one  of  the  minor 
city  théâtres,  who  eked  out  his  slender  income  by  painting 
portraits  when  he  could  get  them  to  paint.  He  was  as 
fond*of  his  art  as  any  of  the  great  old  masters;  but  he 
had  only  one  attribute  in  common  with  those  immortals— 
extrême  poverty  ;  for  his  family  was  large,  and  Mr.  Le- 
gard found  it  a  tight  fit,  indeed,  to  "  make  both  ends  meet" 


1  v>.JwH   *^sV  '«■      '^■^^■ii^^e'  %.*itrfivft  A  ■»  *)--t.*'t->'ii-i  >,  . 


-^ 


Gcrv. 


n 

i^'.\ 


28g 


^hrilly,  and  the  cries  of  h  ,1?!  ^        '",  ""''"''""'■'^e  raised 

s..wb  nose  an/fa' che"k3  5„7d     m  ''"''''"'=  "^"«'«"■s 
»-ep,  came  "mninJ/pti^s  t'"""'^'''"'  •""■"«'«  foot- 

carae  in— a  bright-eved  fair  hv    ,.1  j     '  "^  "'ereabouts, 
-soluté  face,  a^d  ey^  of  elo^dT       /'  ™"'  '  ""«"some 

"Ah,Guy|"said,h.  "'■^^'"""''"«1 

nodding  g/odCo*;;"" 'îvrT  '■'™'"^  -"""  and 
Wto  do  you  thinlc  of  MUs  JenLns  '  "    "  -?'"'"«  >""■• 

'".bryo  conn'oTsseur"  "'  ""'"•=  "■'">  *=  S'ance  of  an 

tl.e  freckles  were  plainer     fit Ti, fj"    T  "■'*"'  »" 
"  Well,  you  see  Guy  "  said     '  ""^  ""  ''^  "  ■"'■" 

Miss  Jenkins-  left  eyeb  0^"  i  do,?rd '"'  """^  °"  "'"■ 

e'cpect  .„  talce  i,  out  in  good  looks   ""f  ",'"''"=^'  -"  '"ey 
tins morning,  Guy» "  ■*"''  "ow,  any  neji-3 

^nd  overcast        *^/*"S'«  y-ng'face  gromng  gloomy 

'kr,Ph;i'DLtg\rS^;'*-  ■■'  "o  — -Pt 

"And  nobodv's  ^L-    u  '"*'*  "°  "««,  l'm  sure." 
îii«,/.-"      "^^  """*'  »'«'•>'  ">e  advertisement  in  ,he 

■■'";  "^""ïa^ """""- ■     " "" ^' ' 


.> . 


f  '' 


l     "«- 


290  S//i  NOEVS  flE/R. 

"No,  and  never  will.  It's  a}l  humbug  what  granny 
says  «iîout  my  b.elonging  to  anybi^dy  rich  ;  if  I  did,  they'd 
hav^seen  after  m^  long  ago.  Phjl  says  my  mothV  vvas  a 
hoiisemaid,  and  my  father  a  valet-j-and  tliey  were  only  too 
glad  to  get  me  off  their  hands.j  Vyking  was  a  valet, 
granny  says  she  knows  ;  and  it's  îlot  likely  he'll  turn  up 
after  ail  thèse  y^ars.  I  don't  carë,  l'd  rather  go  to  the 
work-house  ;  l'd  rather  starve  in  tHe.streets,  than  live  an- 
other  weekîwith  Phil  Darking."       1 

The  blue   eyes  filled  with  tearsJ  and  he  dashed  tliem 
passionately  a^ay.     The   painter  làoked   up  with  a  dis 
tressed  face. 

"  Has  he  been  beating  you  again,  Guy  ?  " 
"  It's  no  matter — he's  a  brute.      (Branny  and   EUen  are 
sorr}',  and  do  what  they  can  ;  but  th^t's  nothing.     I  wish  I 
had  never  been  born." 

"It  is  hard,"  said  the  painter,  cAmpassioifately,  "but 
keep  up  heart,  Guy  ;  if  the  worst  comtes,  why  you  can  stop 
hère  and  take  pot-luck  with  the  rest— Inot  that  that's  ipuch 
better  than  starvation.  You  can  tâke  to  my  business 
shortly  now  ;  and  you'll  make  a  bettër  scene-painteç  than 
ever  I  could.     You've  got  it  in  you." 

"Do  yôu  really  think  so.  Joe.'"  iried  the  boy,  with 
sparkling  èyes,  "  Do  you  ?  l'd  rather  be  an  artist  than-  at 
king^Hailool  " 

He  stopped  sh9rt  in  surprise,  staring  out  of  the  window. 
Legard  looked.  Up  the  dirty  street  cakne  a  Hansom  cab, 
and  stopped  at  their  own  door.  The  driiver  alighted,  mado 
some  inquir)-,  then  opened  the  cab-door,Und  a  lady  stepped 
lightly  out  on  the  curb-stone — a  lady  tall  and  •  stately, 
dressed  in  black,  and  closely  veiled 

"Now  M  ho  can  this  visiter  be  foil?"  said    Legard. 


:Xh 


f^j:j^-ïl<W,  m  ,- 


GUY. 


291 


"People  in  this  neighborhood  ain't  in  the  habit  nf  h     •    ' 
morning-calls  made  on  them  in  cabs      Shl'  '"^ 

île  helcf  the  door  open,  h'stenino-      T^^  1  j 
tli^"  first  fliffht  of  st-lir.      f       T^'        ^  ^'"'^^  ascendcd 

ail.»  ^  ''''°"^  ^'^^t  .advern^ement,  after 

"  Neither  should  I,"  said  Le-ard      "  There  l 'Jh  • 
>n.     You'll  be  sent  for  directlyrGuy."  '  """^  '  ^""^ 

Yes,  the  lady  had  gone  in.     She  had  encountered  on  Yh- 
land.ng  a  sickly  young  woman,with  a  baby  "n Ter  arm. 
who  had  stared  at  t^e  na.e  she  inquired  f^  '  "'"^' 

Mrs.  Martha  Brand  .^    VVhy,  that's  mothef.     Wallc  in 
th.s  way,  if  you  please,  nia'am."  ^  '" 

She  opened  a  door,  and  ushered  the  veiled  ladv  in^'* 

small,  close  room,  poorly  furnished.     Ove  a  smou,ll   ' 

s'a^drAt'  --^^"»-.  sat  an  old  wo^nan  whT    ^S 

and.ng  he  extrême  shabbiness  and  poverty  of  her  d"è  3 

l'fted  a  pleasant,  intelligent  old  l^  "eraress, 

"  A  lady  to  seè  you,  mother  *®l^  fi,^     - 

But  the  lady  made  no  attempt  to  raise  the  envious  screen 
noteven  when  Mrs  Marrii^  tero.,^       .         ^"viuus  screen, 

**  You  are  Mrs.  Brand  ?"  .     ^  .  ' 


-^. 


^■tf         '*Vl«f  ■ir        3  ^  "JH     ' 


*Â 


f^Wi 


TJ 


292 


Sm  NOEUS  H  El 


-  The  voiçe  was  refined  and  ^atrJciaii.     It  woald  hâve  told 
she  was  a  lady,  éyen  if  the  rich  garmentS  she  wore  did  not. 

*•  Yes  ma'am — your  liidyship  ;Martha  Brand." 

•"And  you  inserted  that  advertisement  in  the  Times  re- 
garding  a  child  left  in  your  care,  ten  years  agoV^ 

Mbther  and  daughter  started,  ané  stared  at-the speaker. 

"  It  was  addresséd  to  Mr.  Vyking,  Who  left  the  child  in 
your  charge  ;  by  which,  I  infer,  yOu  are  not  aware  that«^ie 
ha^  left  England."  .    ,       1       * 

"  Left   England,  har,  he»JL"    said  Mrs.  Brand.     **  More-^ 
shame  for  him,  then,  never  to  let  me  know,  or  leave  a 
farfhing  to«support  the  boy."   . 

"lam  inclined  to  believe  it  \n(^s  iiot  his  faûlt,  *  said  the 
clear,  patrician  voice.  "  He  left  England  suddenly,  ànd 
against  his  will  ;  and  I  hâve  rea/îon  to  think  will  never 
returh.  But  there  are  others  int)èrested — more  interested 
than  he  could  possibly  be  in  the  child,  who  remain,  and 
who  are  willing  to  take  him  off  your  hands.  But  first,  why 
,  is  ityqu  are  so  anxious,  after  kéeping  him  ail  thjssç  years, 
to'get  rid  of  him  ?  "  -     -i^ 

'  "Well,  you  see,  your  ladyship,"  replied  Martha  Bfand 
it  is  not  me,  nor iikewise  Ellen  there,  whois  my  daughter. 
We'd  keep  the  lad  and  welcome,  and  share  the  last  crust, 
we  had  with  him,  as  we  often  kave^-for  we're  very  poor 
^eople  ;  but  you  see,  Ellen,  she's  married  now,  and  her 
husband  never  cOUld  bear  Guy — that's  what  we  call  him, 
your  ladyship — Guy,  which  it  was  Mr.  Vyking's  own 
orders.  Phîl  Darking,  her- husband,  never  did  like  him 
Bomehow,  ari4  when  he  gets  drunk^  saving^your  ladyship's 
présence,  he  beats  him  most  unmerciful.  And  now  we're  go- 
ing  to  Àméqca — ^to  New  York,  where  Phil's  got  a  brother, 
aiul  work  is  better  ;  and  Ke  won't  fetch  Guy.     So  your  lady 


.'  (      ^  '  GUY. 

was  alive  at  the  Le  r  h  '^  »=*?h,re,  and  my  husband 
.and>adyof  .h:r;eoLt  £^'  ■"|„^,=''>>;.-^  '"« 
and  paid  me  thirty  sover&ns  a!,  •  '^^  ''^  '"'"'«'"  ^f- 

an    .ha.  Was  the  .as,  as  I  4  l^  o^,^'^.  ^>'*'"S- 
And  Iheinfant'smother?"    saidTh.  .*j     u.       ' 
"  But  verv  liiTl»  ■•  ^'J  anythmg  o(  her  ?  " 

•■I  t«7^  teU  „'f-r"'",\^""'''  ^"^'"■'S  ""  "ead  ■ 

™ for up^aS oT:  ,  .::w  "'Sm''^ r ^"^^ « *« 

'ady,  she  saw  l,er  twice;  and  she  ,1  "/T'  "''  '^"''- 

yonngcreeterShewas-andaladv  »  h.  "  *  P"="5' 

yet."  *™y''"'iereeyefwasalady 

*iving  furious  to  ca.cTthe  t.  ^Id  T""  *=  '^"^-  » 
»as  so  much  hurted  that  she  hL^  u  °"  '''""•    ^he  ladj,  • 
■nd  went  quite  out  of Trf^  ^'  ''"*<'  '»  *e.i"X  - 

^     ^   ^J-^^  fandiady  to  wait  upon  her  unUl  hj:^ 


O 


294 


SIR  NOEVS  HEIR. 


.> 


..1 


could  telegraph  to  London  for  a  nurse,  which  one  came 
down  next  day  and  took  charge  of  her.  The  baby  wasn't 
two  days  old  when  he  brought  it  tome;  and  the  poor 
young  raother  was  dreadful  low,  and  out  o£-her  head  ail  the 
time.  Mr.  Vyking  and  the  nurse  were  ail  that  saw  her,  ^ 
and  the  doctor,  of  cours^;  but  she  didn't  die,  as  the  doctor 
thought  she  would,  but  got  well  ;  andbefbre  she  came  right 
to  her  sensés,  Mr.  "Vyking  paid  the  doctor,  and  told  him 
he  needn't  coine  back.  And  then,  a  little  more  than  a 
fortnight  after,  they  took'hen  away,  ail  sly  and  secret-like 

and  what  they  told  her  about  her  poor  baby  I  don't 

Dcnow.     I  always  thought  there  was  something  dreadful 
wrong  about  the  whole  thing." 

"  And  this  Mr.  Vyking— was  he  the  child's  father-— the 
woman's  husband  ?  " 

.Martha  Brand  looked  sharply  at  the  speaker,  as  if  she 
suspected  she  could  answer  that  question  best. 

"  Nobody  knew,  but  everybody  thought  so.    l've  always 
been  of  opinion,  myself,  that  Guy's  father  and  mother 
were  gentlefplks,  and  I  always  shall  be." 
:  î  "  Does  the  boy  know  his  own  story  ?  " 
"  Yes,  ypur  ladyship — ail  l've  told  you."  i 

"  Where  is  he  ?    I  should  like  to  see  him." 
Mrs.  Brand's  daughter,  ail  this  time  hushing  her  baby, 

started  up. 

"  ru  fetch  him.     He's  up  stairs  in  Legard's^  I  know." 

She  left  the  room   and  ran   up  stairs.    The  painter, 

Legard,  still  was  touching  up  Miss  Jenkins,  and  the  brîght 

haired  boy  stood  watching  the  progress  of  that  work  of  art 

*      "Guyl   Guyl"  she  cried,  breathlessly,  "come  do«Tl 

•tairs  at  once.      You're  wanted." 


K-M 


n/Hio  wanfô  me,  Elient 


=»r= 


f 


>^^  ' 


GUY. 


295 


"  A  lady,  drcssed  in  the  most  élégant  and  expensive 
^  manner— a  real  lady,  Guy  ;  and  she  has  come  about  that 
advertisement,  a«ld  she  wants  to  see  you." 

"  What  is  she  like,  Mrs.  Darking  ?  "  inquired  the  paintei 
— "youngorôld  ?" 

"Y6ung,  I  should  think;  but  she  hidésher  face  behind 
a  thick  veil,  as  if  she  didn't  want  to  be  knbwn.     Come. 

She  hurried  the  lad  down.  stairs,  a™  into  their  littla 
room.  The  veiled  lady  still  sat  talking  to  the  old  woman, 
her  back  to  thé  dim  daylight,  and  that  disguisFng  veil  still 
down.  She  turned  slightly  at  their  entrance,  and  looked 
at  the  boy  through  it.  Guy  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
his  fearless  blue  eyes  fixed  on  the  hidden  face.  Could  he 
hâve  seen  it,  he  might  hâve  started  at  the  grayish  pallor 
which  overspread  it  at  sight  of  him.  "^  - 

"Soiike!  Solike!"  the  lady  was  murmuring  between 
her  set  teeth.    "  It  is  terrible— it  is  marvellous." 

"  This  is  Guy,  your  ladyship,"  Said  M artha  Brand.  "  IVe 
done  what  I  could  for  him  the  last  ten  years,  and,  Fra 
almost  as  sorry  to  part  with  him  as  if  he  were  my  own. 
Is  your  ladyship  going  to  take  him  away  with  you  now  ?  " 

"No,"  said  her  ladyship  sharply,  «I  hâve  no  such  in- 
tention. Hâve  you  no  neighbor  or  friend  who  would  be 
willing  to  take  and  bring  him  up,  if  well  paid  for  the  trouble  ? 
This  time  the  money  will  be  paid  without  fail." 

"  There's  Legard,"  cried  the  boy,  eagerly.     "  l'U  go  to 
Legard's,  granny.     l'd  rather  be  with  Joe  than  anywhere' 
clse." 

"  It's  a  neighbor  that  lives  up  stairs,"  murmured  Martha. 
in  explanation.  «He  always  took  to  Guy,  and  Guy  to 
hira,  in  a  waythatVquite  wonderftrf.   l-ïeVaTeTy  décënT" 


;.^,i  ;■*.«,. 


296 


s//!  AVErS  HEIR: 


nian,  your   ladyship — a  painter   for  a  théâtre  ;  and   Guy 
takes  kindly  to  the  business,  and  would  like  to  be  one 
himself.     If  you   don't  want  to  take  away  the  boy,  yoa 
couidn't  leave  him  in  better  hands." 
^    "  T  am  glad  to  hear  it.     Can  I  see  the  pian  ?  " 

"  ril  fetch  him,"  cried  Guy,  and  ran  out  ôf  the  room. 

Two  minutes  later  came  Mr.  Legard,  in  paper  cap  and 

shirt-sleeves,  bowing  very  low  to  the  grand,  black-robed 

lady,  and  only  too  delighted  to  strike  a  bargain.     The  lady 

'    offered  liberally — Mr.  Legard  closed  with  the  offer  at  once. 

"  You  will  clothe  him  better,  and  you  will  educate  him, 
and  give  him  your  name.  I  wish  him  to  drop  that  of 
Vyking.  The  same  amount  I  give  you  now  will*be  sent 
you  this  time  every  year.  If  you  change  your  résidence  in 
the  meantime,  or  wish  to  communicate  with  me  in  any  oc- 
currence of  conséquence,  you  can  address  Madam  Ada, 
post-office,  Plymputh." 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  stately  and  tall,  and  motioned 
Mr.  Legard  to  withdraw.  The  painter  gathered  up  the 
money  she  laid  on  the  table,  and  bowed  himself,  with  a  ra- 
diant face,  out  of  the  room. 

"As  for  you,'' turnirïg  to  old  Martha,  and  taking  out  of 
her  purse  a  roU  of  crisp,  Bapk  of  England  notes,  "  I  think 
this  will  pay  you  for  the  trouble  you  hâve  had  with  the  boy 
during  the  last  ten  years.  Na  thanks — ^you  hâve  earned 
the  money. '^ 

She  moved  to  the  door,  made  a  slight,  proud  gesture 
with  her  gloved  hand,  in  farewell  ;  took  a  last  look  at  the 
goldeu-haired,  blue-eyed,  handsome  boy,  and  was  gone.  A 
moment  later,  and  her  cab  rattled  out  of  the  murky  street, 
'  and  the  trio  were  alone  staring  at  one  another,  and  at  the 
bulky  roU  of  notes. 


\ 


J*         ■•*    i.     iTl!*  V(J 


"  V-"-: 


GUY. 


297 


ed^oW  Martha,  looking  at  the  roll  with  glistening  eyes 
A  great  lady-a  gréât  lady,  surely.     Guy,  I  shouldn'l 
wojjder  if  that  wasyour  mother." 


,v> 


fca''il>i'i 


fi^^v  -  -^  'i^"* 


.^.  CHAPTER  VII. 

COLONEL  JOCYLN. 

IVE  miles  away  from  Thetford  Towers,  whera 
the  multitudinous  waves  leaped  and  glistened 
ail  day  in  the  sunlight,  as  if  a  glitter  with  dia- 
monds,  stood  Jocyjn  Hall.  An  imposing  struc- 
tire  of  red  brick,  net  yet  one  hundred  years  old,  with  slop- 
ing  meadows  spreading  away  into  the  blue  horizon,  and 
densely  wooded  plantations  down  to  the  wide  sea. 

Colonel  Jocyln,  the  lord  of  thèse  swelling  meadows 
and  miles  of  woodland,  where  the  red  deer  disported  in  the 
green  arcades,  was  absent  in  India,  and  had  been  for  the 
past  nine  years.  They  were  an  old  family,  the  Jocylr^s, 
as  old  as  any  in  Devon,  with  a  pride  that  bore  no  pro- 
portion to  their  purse,  until  the  présent  Jocyln  had,  ail  at 
once,  become  a  millionaire.  A  penniless  young  lieuten- 
ant in  a  cavalry  régiment,  quartered  somewhere  in  Ireland, 
with  a  handsome  face  and  dashing  manners,  he  had  capti- 
•,ated,  at  first  sight,  a  wild,  young  Irish  heiress  of  fabulous 
wealth  and  beauty.  It  was  a  love  match  on  her  side — no- 
body  knew  exactly  what  it  was  on  his  ;  but  they  made  a 
moonlight  flittingof  it,  for  the  lady's  friends  weregrievously 
wroth.  Lieutenant  Jocylnjiked  hisprofession  for  its  own 
sake,  ànd  took  his  Irish  bride  to  India,  and  there  an  heir- 
"^fssandonly  child  ^as  born  toirira.    The  cHtnate^iisagfêëd^ 


'.  ,% 


(»t .  j£jj 


..dul^^K  . 


■'    '.■.■   ■  y 


COLONEL  yoCYLN. 


29$ 


witli   the  young  wife-she  sickened  and  died;  but  the 

young  officer  and  his  baby-girl  remained  in  India.   In  the 

wtTn     ^'^'^'''"^'  Colonel  Jocyln;  and  pne  day  elec 

-tr,fied  his  housekeeper  by  a  letter  announcingïïlsinten.ion 

^rgo^d»^  to.England  with  his  little  daughter  Aileen 

That  same  month  of  December,  which  took  Lady  Thet- 
ord  on  that  mysterious  London  journey,  brought  tiis  let- 
ter  from  Calcutta.  Five  months  after,  when  the  May 
pnmroses  and  hyacinths  were  ail  abloom  in  the  green 
seaside  woodlands,  Colonel  Joclyn  and  his  little  daughter 
came  home.  ^ 

r^^'}^  ""l  *  u^  f^  succeeding  his  arrivai,  Colonel  Jocyln 
rodethough  the  bnght  spring  sunshine,  along  thepleasan" 
high  road  between  Jocyln  Hall  and  Thetford  Towers.  He 
had  met  the  late  Sir  Noël  and  his  bride  once  or  twice  pre- 
vious  to  his  departure  for  India ;,bdt  there  had  been  no 
acquaintance  sufficiently  close  to  warrant  this  speedy  call. 

Lady  Thetford,  sitting  alone  in  her  boudoir,  yawning^ 
the  weary  hours  away  over  a  book,  looked  in  surprise  ai 
the  card  the  servant  brought  her. 

"  Colonel  Jocyln,"  she  said,  «  I  did  not  even  knowhe  had 

l^rfro^ln^' "  ^^  --'-''  '  Perhapshefetches  me 

She  rose  atthe  thought,  her  pale  cheeks  flushing  a  lit- 

tle  with  expectation     MaiK  after  mail  had  arrived  from 

Everard  '      "^"^  '^^  T  ^^"^^  ^^"^  ^«^P^-» 

Lady  Thetford  descended  at  once.     She  had  few  call-   . 
ers;  bu   was^Uyays  exquisitely  dressed,  and  ready  to  re- 


«aiIôw,a«dsoTdIerly,  rose  at  her  entrance. 


x^ 


H*.-*  ■■  '».«.-; 


Ukà  ï*-tjiJÇ».ii4-«i-i''*i^ 


■■M 


f'? 


300 


S/R  NOEVS  HEIR. 


"Lady  Thetford?  Ah,  yes  !     Most  happy  to  see  /oui 
ladyship  once  more.     Permit  me  to  apologize  forthis'very 
early  call— you  will  overlook  my  haste  when  you  hear  my 
''iieason." 
.  Lady  Thetford  held  out  her  white  hand. 

"  Allow  me  to  welcome  you,  back  'to  England,  Colonel 
Jocyln.  You  hâve  come  to  remain  this  time,  I  hope.  And 
little  Aileen  is  well,  I  trust  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  and  very  glad  to  be  released  f rom  shipboard. 
I  need  not  ask  for  young  Sir  Rupert— I  saw  him  with  his 
nurse  in  the  park  as  I  rode  up.  A  fine  boy,  and  like  you 
my  lady." 

"  Yes,  Rupert  is  like  me.  And  now— how  are  our  mu- 
tual  friends  in  India  ?  " 

The  momentous  question  she  had  been  longing  to  ask 
from  the  first,  but  her  well-trained  voice  spoke  it  as  stead-    ' 
ily  as  though  it  had  been  a  question  of  the  weatber. 

Colonel  Jocyln's  face  darkened. 

"  I  bring  bad  news  from  India,  my  lady,  Captain  Everard 
was  a  friend  of  yours  "i  " 

"Yes;  he  left  his  little  daughter  in  my  charge  " 

**  I  know,     You  hâve  not  heard  from  him  lately  ?  " 

"No;  and  I  hâve  been  rather  anxious.  Nothing  haa 
befallen  the  captain;  I  hope  ?  " 

The  well-trained  voice  shook  a  little  dèspite  its  admir-, 
kble  trairiing,  and  the  siender  fîngers  looped  and  unlooped,'^'' - 
hervously  her  watch-chain.  " 

"Yes,  Lady  Thetford,  the  very  worst  that  could  be/all 
him.     George  Everard  is  dead." 

t    There  was  a  blank  pause.     Colonel  Jocyln  looked  grave, 
and  downc^st,  and  sad. 

•*  He  was  my  friend,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  my  intimate 


*  » 


.  .Si 


.^> 


COLONEL  JOCYLN. 


Z9^ 

fnend  for  many  years-a  fine  fellow.  and  brave  as  a  lion 
Many,  many  nights  we  hâve  lain  with  the  star!  of  1  d  a 

tngland,  of  his  daughter."  ?     ' 

I^dy  Thetford  never  spoke,  never  stiired.     She  was 
.ttmg,  gaz,„g  steadfastly  oat  of  the  windo;,  a.  Ae  spaTfc         ' 
Img  sunsh.„e,  and  Colonel  Jocyln  could  „o,  see  her  facf 
He  was  as  glorious  a  soldier  as  ever  I  knew  "  ît. 
colonel  wen.  on;  "and  he  died  a  soldier's  deâth    J^ >> 
«hrough   .he   heart.     They  buried  him"«    h*e~t?.  '  ' 

TS^'  -'  X  "'  "  """  "'""  °"  '''^^™' 

sa.'^tuhZr'!;''*'"''""'^^-    StiU  Lady  Thetford     ^^ 

as  you.  Lad'y  T^tlojT      '  '"  "'""^  ^•'^''  "  ^^ardian    > 
Lady   Thetford   awoke   with   a  start      <;h«   i,  j   u     ' 

Fvenr^  t.,  1.    j  .    S'fU»<W  S  home  with  Georee 

i.verardherhandson.e,impetuous  lover,  byherside     Sh« 
had  loved  him,  then,  even  when  she  said  ITl  T       •  ! 

anoth»  ;  she  loved  h™  stni,  a  d  now  he  w  s  de"ad-:i^rHl 
Bu.  she  ...ned  to  her  visiter  with  a  face^rat  t^:^:^'  ' 

Ma'Sid  crp;S7tS  ^e'LTher^î  """^""^ 
he  died  ?  "  '^         '  ""•  "',  me,  before 

noZe."""  '""^'^"^°"='y.  Lady  Thetford.  '  Tlere  wa, 
■svet"'.:;''^^^^"""'    ^'"'h^  fortune  ,fwar-bu.i.       '^ 


„?•.•  >.  .  . 


ss^.-^-    - 


m 


'":>"■'/<■   -^  " 


'  '  •*-'i^s^ij^^*^'-'^^-'''-t?^;*^:^::^', 


302 


s//!  NOErs  HEIR. 


That  was  ail  ;  we  may  feèl  inexpressibly,  but  we  can 
only  utter  commonplaces.  Lady  Thetford  was  very,  very 
pale,  but  her  pallor  told.nothing  of  the  dreary  p^ain  at  hei 
heart 

"  Would  you  not  like  to  see  little  May  ?  I  wifl  send  foï 
her."  .  » 

Little  May  was  sent  for,  and  came.  A  brilliant  httle 
fairy  as  ever,  brightly  dtessed,  with  shimmering  goWen 
curls,  and  starry  eyes.  By  her  «ide  stood  Sir  Rupert~the 
nine-year-old  Mferonet,  grqwing  tall  very  fast,  pale  and  slen- 
der  still,  and  looking  at  the  colonel  with  hîS  mother's  dark 
deep  eyes.  /  ' 

C^.  Jocyln  held  out  hîs  hand  to  the  flaxen-haired  fairy. 

"Corne  hère,  little  May,  and  kiss  papa's  friend.  You 
remember  bbipa,  don't  you  jw» 

"  Yes,'.'  s^i4  May,  sitting  on  ïïis  knee  contentedly.  "Oh, 
yes.  When  1^  papa  coming  home  ?  He  said  in  mamma's 
lëtter  he  would  fetch  me  lots  and  lots  of  dolls,  and  picture- 
books.     Is  he  coming  home  soon ?" 

**  Not  very  soon,"  the  colonel  said,  inexpressibly  touched  ; 
.«but  little  Maywill  go  to  papa  some  day.    You  are 
mamma,  I  suppose .?  "  smiling  at  Lady  Thetford. 

"l^s,"  nodded  May,  «that's  mamma,  and  Rupert's 
mamma.  Ohl  l'm  so  sorry  papa  isn't  coming  home 
soon.  Do  you  know,"  looking  up  in  his  face  with  big, 
shmmg,  solemn  eyes,  "IVe  got  a  pony,  and  I  can  ride 
lovely  ;  and  its  name  is  Snow-drop,  because  it's  ail  white  , 
and  Rupert's  is  black,  and  his  name  is  Sultan  ?  And  IVe 
got  a  watch  ;  mamma  gave  it  to  me  last  Christmas  ;  and 
my  doll's  name— the  big  one,  you  know,  that  opens  its 
eyes  and  says,  '  mamma  '  and  '  papa,'  is  Sonora.  Hâve 
you  got  any  little  girls  at  home  ?  " 


coLOi-^L  jocy/jv. 


303 


'*  One,  Miss  Chatterbox." 
"  What's  her  name  ?  " 

"  Aileen— Aileen  Jocyln." 
"  Is  she  nice  ?  " 

"Very  nice,  I  think." 

"Will  she  corne  to  see  me  ?'^ 

"  If  you  wish  it,  and  mamma  wishes  it  " 

"Oh,  yes!  you  do,don't  you,  mamma?    How  hw  » 
your  Iittle  girl— as  big  as  me  ?"  ^  " 

\  VBigger,  Ifancy.     She  is  nine  year«  old  " 

"Then  she's  as  big  as   Rupert-he's  nine   years   old 
May  she  fetch  her  doll  to  see  Sonora  ?  " 
;'  Certainly_a  régiment  of  dolls,  if  she  wishes." 
«-an  t  she  come  to-morrow?"  asked  Ruoert  "T«  ^ 

"Thatmust  be  as  mamma  says."        ' 

"Oh,  fetch  her,"  cried  Lady  Thetford,  «it  will  be  .0 
-c.  for  May  and  Rupert.  Only  I  ho^e  1  ttle  Mal  won'^ 
quarrel  with  her;  she  does  quarrel  with  h  pU.^ra 
gjod  deal,  I  am  sorry  to  say."  P'aymates  a 

"  I  won't,  if  she's  nice,"  said  Mav  •  "it'<î  ^ii  f»,^-    ri 

Oh,  RupertI   there's  Mr's.  Weym^Je'on    L    at^j^"^^! 

want  her  to  come  an^  see  the  rabbits.     There's  five    «le 

abbits   this  morning,   mamma-mayn't  I  go  and  show 

them  to  Mrs.  Wejmore ?"  ^^^  go  and  show 

Lady  Thetford  nodded  smiling  acquiescence  •  an^ 
ra„  m..e  May  a„U  R„p.«  ,  ,,l  .^  ^S^  '.o^hVgZ 

Colonel  Jocyln  lingered  for  hait  an  hour  irUpwards  mn 

oït  tfee  nrorrew  with  ^s  liftlé — 


■<', 


u  1 


W-m 


't  jj^^S^tmm^^J!^'M%t«^^^^H  ^'^h^  ■> 


iM  V-^ïJ^^-'^lïÂi&t" 


304 


S/Jt  NOEVS  HE/Jt. 


ea   "fdln^îv"'?"''  "^  "^""«"S  4pe.  au  image 
Udy  rhetford,  fair,  anàstately,  and  gracefjl 

"  Nine  years  a  widow,"  he  jnused.     "  They  sav  she  tor>U 

herhusband-sd^th  ve^  hard-a„d  no  woLerf  ^onsider 

•^  howhe  d,ed;  but  nine  years  is  a  tollable  -imlin 

-  ^h,ch  ,0  forget.    She  received  the  news  of  Eterard-sTea  h 

"alr^,    ^."""'^'"PPO-  "-ère  ever  L  anythtg 

^.  r.z^.-  "°:  "^■"'-"^  4  -  -^  "o' 

He  broke  off  in  his  musing  fft  ,o  light  a  c  gar,  and  see 
through  ,he  curling  smoké  dark-eyed  Ada,  mamma  to  lit  e 
Adeen  as  well  as  the  other  two.     He  had  n^r  thoSght  of 
want^g  a  w,fe  before  i„  „,  ,he  years  of  his  '^idowho^d 
but  the  want  struck  him  forcibly  now 

bettr:":  ^^   complàcently;."my  lady  can't  do 

So  next  day,  the^earliest  possible  hour  brought  back  the 
galant  colonel,  and  with  him  a  brown-haired,  brown-eyed 
Se  if  ""''  gi.l,  as  tau,  eve^  inch,  a:.' Sir  Rupert 
A  httle  embryo  patncian,  with  pride  in  her  infantile  lin- 
éaments, already,  an  uplif ted  poise  of  the  graceful  head,  a 
ight  elastic  step,  and  a  softly-modulated  voice.  A  litlle 
lady  from  top  to  toe,  who  opene(i  her  brown  eyes  in  wide 
wonder  at  the  antics,  and  gambols,  and  obstreperousness' 
generally,  of  little  May.  ^  ' 

There  were  two  or  thrrffe  children  from  theTectory,  and   '^ 
half  a  dozen  from  other  familles  .in  the  neighborhood-- 
and  the  httle  birthday  feast  was  urider  the  chfrge  of  Mrs. 
Weymore,  the  govemess,  pale  and  pretty,  and  subdued.  a 


~  ^(^^'0)\^^ocyLJv. 


) 


30.5 


holeirl""  "'k'  P'P'  '  "  '^^  "'"^  rapturously,  ridins 
nome  m  tne   mistv  moon  iVhf      "t«^.  .        J'»  *'"'"g 

f].o     *  ruder«iT*  laughs   so  bud.     IVe  askpH 

them  to  corne  and  see  me,  papa  ;  and  May  sdid  she  would 
make  her  ;î>amma  let  them  comenextweek    AnW  .h      t. 
going  back-I  shall  always  like  to  go  thet^'^'  ^'^"  ^  "^ 

erSE^7'?""f  ^'  ^^  "^^^"^^  ^«  his  little  daughc 

rertof  of  Sf  rn  T  d;""er-party,  at  which  he  and  the 
r^^c^^-fepçrt  and  therector'swif<rwere  the  «nly 
guests,  had  been  quUe  as  pleasant  as  the  birthdav  f^e 

lady  of    he  manor,  presiding  at  her  own  dinner-table 
How  well  ,he  would  look  a^  the  Ixead  ofjhis  ?     ^  "^-^       * 
Je^\Tt'^:fT'  ^'"  ^^^--  a  ve^  fréquent 
excuse.     Aileen  was  lonely  at  homerand  Runerf  ^..h  Z 
were  always  glad  to  have^her.    So VTpa  Irov    ht  fver 
near  y  every  day,  or  elsç  came  to  fetch  throther  Lm 
Jocyln  Hall.      Lady  Thetford  was  evermost  ^I^ 
a^d  the  colo^el's  hopes  ran  high  ^^''°"'' 

Summerwaned.     It  was  October,  and  Lady  Thetford    ^ 
began  talkm^  of  leaving  St.  Gosport  for  a  sJason     her 

"U^^^^^^^^^^^^  °^  ^^  -^  recomm^eidl 

^       I  can  leave  my  chUdren  in  charge  of^  Mrs.  Weymor^ 


■f 


% 


^% 


"X^  X'^ji 


306 


S/J^  AV£rs  HÊIR 


ahc  sa  4.  I  hâve  every  confidence  jn  her  ;  and  she  has 
been  wuh  me  so  long.  :  J  think  I  shall  départ  next  week  • 
Dr.  Gale  says  I  hâve  delayed  too  long."  ' 

Colonel  Jocyln  looked  up  aneasily.  They  were  sittiim 
alone  together,  looking  at  the  red  October  sunset  blaiin- 
itself  out  behind  the  Devon  hills.         ,  ^ 

"We  will  miss  you  very  much,"  lie  said,  softly.  '«I 
will  miss  you." 

^    Something  in  his  tone  struck  Lady  Thetford.     She  turn- 
ed  her  dark  eyes  upon  him  in  surprise  and  sudden  alarm 
ahe  look  had  to  be  answefôd-rather  emj^ssed,  and 
not  àt  ail  so  confident  as  he  thought  he  would  %ve  been 
Colonel  Jocyln  a^ked  Lady  Thetford  to  be  his  vie. 

There  was  a  blanlc  pause.     Then, 
^^^  I  a.^  very^  sorry,  Colonel  Jc^.    J  never  thought  of 

He  looked  at  her,  pale— alarmed, 
"  E>ôes  that  mean  no,  Lady  Thetford?  "  ( 
"  \i  means  no,  Colonel  Jocyln.  I  hâve  never  thought  of 
you  save  as  a  friend  ;  as  a  fr^end  I  still  ^ish  to  retain  you. 
I  will  m^ver  marry.  What  I  am  to-day,I  will  go  to  mv 
paye.  My  iDoy  has  my  whole  heart-there  is  n6  room  i^ 
J#r  anyone  else.     Le*,  us  be  friends,  Colonel  Jocyln  " 

holdmg  out  her  vvhite,  jeweled^hand,  "  more,  no 
maïi  can  ever  be  to  me.  '.  ^ 


\ 


^h-^^m^^tà^^' 


|Sè 


'ë&àfiiéÉ)&-\ 


^*^^m,-^B^^9mrix 


/ 


"I 


CHAPfER  Vlltr 

LADY  THETFORd's    BALL. 

EARS  came,  and  years  went;  and  thirteen  pass 
ed  away.     In  ^1  thèse  years,  with  thei'r  count- 
less    changes^  Thetford    Towers  had  beçn  a 
deserted  housc;     'Comparatively  speaking,  6f 
coursé-;    Mrs.    Weymorë,    the    governess,  Mrs.  IWliarA  " 
Ih^    fcousekeeper,    Mr.    Jarvjs,     tlïe    butler,    and    theik 
mmor  satellites,  served  there  still,  but  its  mistress  and  ' 
her  youthful  son  had  been  absent.     Only  Httle  May  had 
rt^mained  under  Mrs.  Weymore's  charge  umil  within  the  - 
lasttwo  years,  and  then  she,  too,  had  gone'to  Paris  to  a 
finishmg  school.    '  * 

Lady  Thetford  came  herself  to  the  Towers  to  fetch  h(^'. 
-the  only  time  in  thèse  thirteen  yearsT    She  had  spent 
them  pleasantly  enough,  rambling  about  the  Continent, 
and  in  her  villa  on  the  Arno,  for  her.health  was  frail,  and 
8[,°l"g  «lady  frailer,  and  demanded  a*  sunrty,  Southern 
dimate.     The  little  baronet  had  |ône  to  Eton,  thence  to  ' 
Uxford,  passmg  his  vacation  abroad-writh  his  mamma^ 
and  St.  Gosport  hadiségn  nothing  of  them.    Lady  Thetford 
had  thought  it  best  for  mamr  reasoijs,  to  leave  little  May 
quietly  m  England  duriog  f  er  wanderings.     She  mis»ed 
the  child,  but  she  had  every  confidence  in  Mrs.  Weymore. 
Ihe  ôld  aversion  had  never  enth-ely  worn  away,  but  time 


•*( 


^ 


iJ^^ë^ASn^   Ca^^a^â^^^         i 


■  afc 


r    "t    "^  ■•'.:'■:■:": 


% 


30S 


S/Jt  !<rOEL'S  IIEJR. 


ci 


Ihen  Lady  Thelford  and  her  soo,#pe„ding  the  w  iS 
Rome,  had  encountered  Colonel  and  Miss  Jocyln  anÏ!h^" 

■    ?^  .h      M l    ^  ■'"  'P""S  '»  '^'''^  "P  their  abode  once  more  - 

'  ,on  oflon    ""'  \"'  ^°""'"  J"^^'"  ^""°'"'-''  his  i„r  ' 
,  tion  of  followmg  their  example. 

Lady  Thetford  wrote  to  Mrs.'  Weymore,  her  vicerov  and 

Ihe  ford  Towers  was  to  be  completely  reiuvenafed    „1 
furn,shed,  painted.  and  decora.ed'    La'ndl'cape  ^  dT"erI 
«re.«t  atwork  in  the  grounds;  ail  things  „ere  toT 
readythefollowingjune.  ,  '"gs  were  to  be 

Sumraer  came  and  brought,  the  absentees-Ladv  Thet- 
ford  and  her  son.  Colonel  Jocyln  and  his  daughter  and 
there  „ere  bonfires  and  illumination^  and  feas.fng^f  te„ 

Sf  TH  T^;?.°'  ''"''•  """  g»">l  J"b"ation,^ha.  the 
he^of  Thetford  Towers  had  corne  .0  reign  at  Tast 

The  week  following  the  arrivai,  Lady  Thetford  issued 
nv,,a,,o„s  overhalf  the  county  for  a  grand  baï    Th" 
ord  Towers,  af ter  over  twenty  years  of  gloo™  and  solitude 

h?,l,  hT^°"'  '^^"  '"  *'  °'''  g-'y^'y  »d  brillian« 
.h«  had  been  «s  normal  state  before  the  prcsen.  heir  Z 

The  night  of  the  bail  came,  and  with  il  nearly  eve^,  on. 


LADY  TirETFORD'S  BALL. 


309 

with  dreamv  artk,'=  .  7'  handsome  of  face, 

mother's  son.  «aa  run  out,  he  was  h.s  own  ■ 

I.ady  Thetford,  grown  pallid  and  wan,  and  wasted  în  .Il 

like  a  queen.     It  wa.ThT;  ?    '  "^^^'^'"S  ^er  guests 

her  h^^r,  :his  ^I^I^^Zl;:' ÏV^'^'  *'^  '^^'^^  ^' 
home  of  his  fathers  rnl       Tl    l    '''°''  '^'«^"'"ê^  ^^  ^he 

could  count.  /°'  '"°'""  ^^"'•^  b^^k  than  she 

mink  1  should  hâve  nothing  left  on  earth  to  désire  " 
She  glanced  across  the  wide  rnnm      i 
hghts,  and  flitdng  forms  and  nVh  7'      ^"^  ^  ^''*"  ^ 
jewels,  to  where  a^ouTgUdy  stood^^^^^  !"'  f  ^"« 
mated  group-a  tall  «nf      •        ,    '  ^  ^«"treof  an  ani- 

noble  and  as  .nZ^Tj  Z      ""''"'  "'  ' '^"  ^ 


"  ~-'vua  wi«u^.aay_^y  bring  rorth.    AHf  if  J  dared 


fe;ïàé!ki^*^„.  yà.;:. 


•■■.ife. 


310 


SIR  NOEVS  HFfR. 


c^^y  ^^eak,  but  I  dare  not  ;  it  would  ruin  ail.     I  know  my 

'    actlrihnrn'  Thetford  %new  her  son,  understood  his  <:har. 
a  ^tot  h  "^    ''^  "f  was  agréât  deal  too  wary  a  conspir- 
a  or  to  let  him  see  her  cards.     Fate,  not  she,  had  thrcnvn 
the  heiress  and  the  baronet  constantly  together  of  W 
and  AUeen'sown  beauty  and  grâce  w're  sLi;sufficren; 
tl^n-  buT  h    '  ""  ^'^r^  '"'^^  ^^  ^^^^  T'^^^f-^ 
dearly,  and  would  hâve  done  a  great  deal  to  add  to  her 
happ,ness      She  left  it  to  ^xte,  and  leaVing  it,  was  doing 
the  wjsest  thing  she  could  possibly  do.  " 

It  seëmed  as  if-her  hopes  were  likely  to  be  realized.  Sir 
Rupert  had  an  artist's  and  a  Sybarite's  love  for  ail  ihings 
beaut.ful  and  could  appreciate  the  grand  statuesque  st/e 
of  M.SS  Jocyln's  beauty,  even  as  his  mother  could  not 
apprecate  ,t.     She  was  like  the  Pallas  Athene,  she  was 
his  ideal  woman,  fair  and  proud,  uplifted  and  serene,  smil- 
ing  on  ail,  from  the  heights  of  high-and-mightydom,  but 
shming  upon  them,  a  brilliant  far-off   star,  keeping  her 
warmth  and  her  sweetness  ail  for  him.     He  was  an  indo- 
lent, dreamy  Sybarite,  this  pale  young  baronet,  who  liked 
his  rose-leaves  unrufflèd  under  him,  full  of  artistic  tastes 
%nd  inspirations,  and  a  great  deal  too  lazy  ever  to  carry 
them  into  effect     He  was  an  artist,  and  he  had  his  studio 
where  he  began  fifty  gigantic  deeds  at  once  in  the  way  of 
pictures,  and  seldom  finished  one.     Nature  had  intended 
him  for  an  artist,  not  a  country  squire  ;  he  cared  little  for 
nding,  or  hunting,  or  fishing,  or  farming,  any  of  the  thnigs 
wherein  count^r  squires  delight;  he  liked  better  to  lie  on 
the  warm  grass,  with  the  summer  wind  stirring  in  the  trees 
over  his  head,  and  smoke  his  Turkish  pipe,  andd^amThe 


-:âiïl 


LADY  THETFORD^s  BALL. 


«^"ess.  élégant,  languid  d/eam      a«rt      Tu  °"'^  ^"  ''"'=■ 
«mil  the  end  of  the  chanter  '         '°     '"'^  '°  ''^"'''•" 

Lady  Thetford's  ha  H 
famous  success.    Un,if^tl!f5  ">""''"' ^'^^''^  and  a 

.i>e  count,  hâd  ber„  fnv  e"ran7ha«lr'^'''''-  "^" 
«hère;  hosts  of  preltv  r„„,  ,  .  *'  '^°"'"y  "ère 
and    spa,kh-ng'y„el^';2l'*','"   'a«s  and  roses, 

Wed   "becks  and  no^:     "'d  u    '"^"'5'  "'''P''.  and ' 

^     spécial  délectation  «rthe  hand^      ''  ™'''=='"  '"  '"-e    ' 
ford  Towers.  handsome,  courtly  heir  o(  Thet- 

But  the  heir  of  Thr^rf^r^  t- 
forai,,ye,  „^ked  thro^g h  tlr^s"' !!*  ^"T ^'^«"S' 
cure,  »l,ile  the  starryface  ',  /"'"■''■^"n  P'*lls  quitese- 
i^  Us  paie,  high-breZbt't;  «1]°^^;'""'*  ™  "■"> 
he  had  an  antipathy  to  daLng  as  he  h^d  f  ""'  """^''  ' 
any  kind,  and  presently  he  stood  îln  *''"''™  °«- 

white  column,  watchinj  her  °  ^  '«"mg  against  a  siender 

He  could  see  quite  asXt  .V  s  h^tthe  ^  ^'■"'""■°"- 
Propera„arriage  with  the  heir.  s  of  Col   r     7'"'""'' 

-d  bean^.^rf::Thireîf'v" '::;'■"  r'^''''''^^ . 

though  anything  but  a  coxcomh  «^  T      ""  '°™  ''  and, 
perfectiy  aware  of  his  o»n  h  '  f     ^" P"'  '^^^'^°'^  »as 
a«isfs  eyes,  and  his  fifteL  ft„      T  '"""  =■""  "^«"y 
pedigree,  and  had  a  ha^  We?^."?^"  ^ "■■  """  ''"«"'^     • 
•ould  not  say  „„  „henTe  s^    '  "'"""'  ^"''" 

"And  ri,  speak^to-ni^ht,  hy  yovc.^a-o,gh.  the  young 


^ 


r 


312 


S/J^  NOEVS  HÈIR. 


baronet,  as  near  being  enthusiastic  as  was  in  lus  nahire, 
while  he  watched  her,  the  brilliant  centre  of  a  briliiant group 

How  exquisite  she  is  in  her  statuesque  grâce,  my  peer- 
less  Aileen,  the  idéal  of  my  dreams.  l'II  ask  her  to  be  my 
wife  to-night,  or  that  inconceivable  idiot,  Lord  Gilbert 
Penryhn  will  do  it  to-morrow." 

He  sauntered  over  to  the  group,  not  at  ail  insensible  to 
the  quick,  bright  smile  and  flitting  flush  with  which  Miss 
Jocyln  welcomed  him. 

"I  believe  this  waltz  is  mine,  Miss  Jocyln.  Very  sorry 
to.break  upon  your  tête-à-tête,  Penryhn,  but  necëisity  knows 
no  law."  '  /    • 

A  moment  and  they  were  floating  down  the  whirling 
tide  of  the  dance,  with  the  wild,  sweet  waltz  music 
swelhng  and  sounding,  and  Miss  Jocyln's  perfumed  hair 
breathmg  fragrance  around  him,  the  star^  face  and 
dark,  dewy  eyes,  downcast  a  little,  in  a  happy  tremor  The 
cold,  stiU  look  of  fixed  pride  seemed  to  mel^  dm  of  her 
face,  and  an  exquisite  rosy  light  came  aud  went  in  its 
place,  making  her  more  lovely  than  ever^and  Sir  Rupêrt 
saw  and  understood  it  àlL  wjth  a-  little  complacent  thriU 
of  satisfaction.  ^ 

\.  ^They  waltzed  out  of  the  ball-room  mto  a  conservatory  of 
eiqmsite  blossom,  where  tropic  plants  of  gorgeous  hues, 
an4  plashmg  fountains,  under  the  white  light  of  alabaster 
\bHP%  made  a  sort  of  garden  of  Eden.  There  were  orange 
and  myrtle  trees  ôppressing  the  warm  air  with  their  sweet- 
ness,  and  through  the  open,  Fjench  Windows  came  th-^ 
soft,  misty  moonlight,  and  ^e  saline  wînd.  There  they 
stopped,  looking  ont  ati^ç  pale  gloiy  of  the  night.  and 
there  Sir  Rupert,  about  to  ask  the  suprême  question  of 
his  hfe,  and  «rith  his  heart  béginning  to  plunge  against  his 


LADV  THETFORlys  BAIL. 


side^opened  conversacion  >vi.h  .he  „s„al  brilHancy  i.  ^ 

Miss  Jocyln  laughed  frankl»     «si,, 
n'ore  impassioned  than  ht  ,  '^   f-'/a^  Ot  a  nature  far 

woman,  she  had  the  bfst  of  ifn'o'       "  '"  ""''  "''"S  » 

-•:zrb:îctr,£-d...^^^^ 

-'^    Are  you  notSnspi ^,^^1;^?'  '"""""s"'  <">  «» 
and*en";e''s.aHZ/"''r'  ^'»«-  '-»''"3  s™i.e. 

"My  inspirai    rneler-lool^'^r'''''^  "'■"^'«^ 
ingface.     «Aile,"-'-  a^rf  l  '""^'"g  down  »  jhe  drobp- 

darkened  the  rnooS  t  fi  *""";''  '"  *  ^"a"'"' 
apirit,  and  stood  bef"  ?,h'  *f  ."•%«■«-<'  'n  like  a 
rosy  drapery  with  IhZ  "^  "S:"'"'  '"  »  <:■»•«»  of 

eyes  of  tur^Ce  M„e       "'"^'  ^"'^"  '"^'^  -"  «--g 

ion:;':h\^r,  ::;"t':;f' -tr '- «« -pan. 

«P  ta  their  faces,  and  n^rs^^inV   »^'*'--'  """'"« 

»4  *^      ' 


iâ»*. 


1  *<«••$  î 


*■. 


314 


S/H  NOEVS  HEIR. 


forward,  doubt;  récognition,  delight,  ail   in   her   face  at 
once. 

"  Il  isr— it  is!  "  she  cried,  "  May  Everard  !  " 
-  "  May  Everard  !  "  Sir  Rupert  echoed— "  little  May  !  " 

"  At  your  service,,  monsieur.  To  think  you  should  hâve 
forgotten  me  so  completely  in  a  décade  of  years,.  For 
shame,  Sir  Kupiert  Thetford  !" 

And  then  she  was  in  Aileen  Jocyln's  arms,  and  there 
was  an  hiatus  filled  up  with  kisses. 

"  Oh  !  what  a  surprise.  "  Miss  Jocyln  cried,  breathlessly. 
"  Hâve  you  dropped  fron)  the  skies  ?  I  thought  you  were 
in  France." 

May  Everard  laughed,  the  mischevious  laugh  of  thirteen 
years  ago,  as  .she  held  "up  her  dimpled  çhfeëks,  first  one 
and  then  the  othter,  to  Sir  Rupert. 

"  Did  you  "i    So  I  was,  but  I  rgin  away."         s  ^     - 

"Ranaway!     From«chooI?" 

*•  Something  very  like  it  Oh  !  how  stupid  it  was,  and  I 
couldn't  endure  it  any  longer  ;  and  I  am  sp  filled  with 
knowledge  now,  that  if  I  held  any  more,  I  should  explode  ; 
and  so  when  vacation  began,  and  I  was  permitted  to 
spend  a  week  with  a  friend  \  just  took  French  leave  and 
came  home  instead.  And  so,"  folding  the  fairy  hands,  and 
nodding  her  little  ringleted  head,  "  hère  I  am." 

"But,  good  heavensi"  cried  Sir  Rupert,  aghàst,  "you 
never  mean  to  say,  May,  you  hâve  come  alonè." 

"  Ail  alone,"  said  May,  with  another  nod.  "  l'm  uscd 
to  it,  you  know  ;  did  it  last  vacation.  Came  across  and 
9>ent  it  with  Mrs.  Weymore.  I  doR't  mind  it  the  leastj 
don't  know  what  sea-sickness  is  ;  and  oh  !  didn't  some  of 
the  poor  wretches  sufEer  !  Isn't  it  fortunâte  l'm  hère  for 
the  bail  ?  And,  Rupert,  good  gracious  !  how  youVe  grown  1  ' 


M 


«A.., 


*■;■'.■ 


'  9 

Face  at 


LADY  THETFORD'S  BALL 
Ihis  escapade'"         !  ^       "^''"  ^"^^  ""^  '^<<y  «'y  to 

to  Miss  Jocyln  ?  "  '  ^?'  P'^^P^  ^^^  ^elong 

or.y.u„,„c.ycavaHer,4f;';rif  :,'  r.r.ôrdt'^  ' 
n>.ch  as  .'>ey  p,:L::r„r„r  „^^:?^:xrTi:  "^■^"^ 

back  to  the  ball-mnm  n,«  <  .  "/'"^f  any  one.  They  went 

Ui(o„„dhera„"  S  ;4^  Miss  Jocyln's 

silsnt  and  rf^/y^y  ail  the  rL  „f  ,■!  **:'!  J"<=>''»  *«  «"y 
^Jve,,  but  i„cessa„;^,  ^  «Itter^tr^  ^rte 

a"  :srd  ^le^  r:x-r  "^  '"^-  ■"« 

crown  and  th^        T'  electrified  the  room,  and  took  the 
y*  Més  Huuse  stood  uot  the  shadôw  ôrchance. T'" 


,^:- 


X 


y 


,k'  ^JttiS'i^ié  *3 


f-jfftj         <--w 


•/ 


;*'ii. 


i^ 


316 


S/^  NOEOS  HEfR. 


Misstfocyln  held  herself  aloof  from  Ihe  young  baronet 
for  the  remaining  hours  of  the  bail.  She  had  known  as 
well  as he  the  words  that  were  on his  lips  when.May  Evprard 
interposed  ;  and  her  eyes  flasbed,  and  her  dark  cheeks 
flushed  dusky  red  to  see  how  easily  he  had  bee^  deterreà 
from  his  purpose.  For  him,  he  sought  her  once  or  twice 
in  a  desultory  sort  of  way,  never  observing  that  he  was  pur- 
posely  avoided,  wandering  contentedly  back  to  dévote  him- 
self  to  some  one  else,  and  in  the  pauses  to  watch  May 
Everard  floating— a  sunbeam  in  a  sunny  cloud— hère  and 
there,  and  everywhere.      <\ 


V 


^ 


> 


.•*  L«o,».i 


kH«f.àï*, 


*•      ^i      1    é^i'im^»^ 


»  »i-*"  va  tflii:/ v'i^'U 


'il 


CHAPTER  IX. 

GUY   LEGARD. 

The  ..oming  „as  dull  •  The  /et,.     T"!"'"^  ^'^  ^^^ 

"P  the'gray  sands     aL„  ,      î'    ""'  «'''>'  ^^^  "<=<^Ping 

breakfaf,  L,es:-a„d  "d^a^T he"  ?,!"=■  ''»''  ^''  ^'■- 

dow,  gazing  blankly  over  the  nat  ,  "  .'"•^"'"gfon.  win- 

"g  loose  and  damp  Z^Cl^^fT"^' ''^  ^-"  t-^^- 

listlessly  in  her  lao       Th    l  ^^"'''"s,  a  novel  lying 

.houghte'  «o^d  s^^in'l;,":"/,'"^''  -  -tares  Jhe? 
ers.    ■         ,  ^  "  *P"'  °'  lier  to  Thetford  Tow- 

pie  admire.    I  never  rt^„    t  ?  P'"""«s  'hat  some  peo- 

"ating;  I  beIieTthat"a  J  T'T  •  T"^^  ""  '>«  '«c 
»«   Ihose  dashinea^  l„r  >''*"'''' ™»""  of  her,. 

-Iddoing^tak^for^e^ty^^rm'^r  '"^'^  °'  '^-» 
niistaken  in  Sir  Runerr  ■  r  j  ^  Presnme  I  wa« 

»i"be  Lady  The  Jrd  b;^^! tn"^  """''•  P°°"""  "»? 


1 


Cil 


■-yt''^^mii^y{.^f^:  ?,S'^--r^^^ 


318 


jyy?  JVOEL'S  HEIR. 


.      Miss  Jocyln's  short  upper-lip  curled  rather  scornfullj^- 
and  she  rose  up  with  a  little  air  ol  pétulance;  and  walked 
across  the  room  to  the  opposite  window.     It  cofhmanded 
a  View  of  the  lawn  and  a  long  wooded  drive,'  and  canter- 
ing  airily  up  under  the  waving  trees,  she  saw  the  yoiing*' 
lady  of  whom  she  had  been  thinking.     The  pretty,  fleet* 
footed  pony  and  his  br|ght  little  mistfess  were  by  no  îne^^? 
rare  visitors  at  Jocyln  Hall  ;  and  Miss  Jocyln  was  alw^yl 
elaborately  civil  to  Miss  Everard.     Very  pretty  little  May 
looked,  ail  her  tinselled  qurls  floating  in  the  breeze,  like  a 
golden  banner,  the  blue   eyes  niore  starily  radiant  than 
ever;  the  dark  riding-habit  and  jaunty  hat  and  plume  the 
most  becoming  things  in  the  world.     She  saw  Miss  Jocyln 
at  the,  window,  kissed  her  hand,  and  resigi^l  Arab  to  the 
gï-oom.     A  minute  more,  and  she  was  saluti«g  Aileen  with 
effusion. 

"  You  solemn  Aileen  !  to  sit  and  mope  hère  in  the  housç 
instead  of  improving  your  health  and  temper  by  a  breezy  - 
canter  over  the  downs.     Don't  contradict,  I  know  you  were    . 
moping.     I  should  be  afraid  to  tell  you  how  many  miles 
Arab  and  I  hâve  got  ovér  this  morning.     And  you  never 
came  to  see  me  yesterday,  either.'    Why  was  it  ?  " 

"I  didn't  feel  inclined,"  Miss  Jocyln  answered  truth- 
fully. 

"  No,  you  never  do  feel  inclined  unless  I  corne  and  drag 
you  out  by  force  ;  you  sit  in  the  hpuse  and  grow  yellôw 
and  jaundiced  over  high-church  novels.  I  déclare  I  never 
met  so  many  lazy  people  in  ail  my  life  as  I  hâve  done  since 
I  came  home.  One  don't  mind  mamma,  poor  thing  !  shut- 
ting  herself  up,  and  the  sunshine  and  fresh  aTf  of  heaven 
out— but  for  you  and  Rupert,  and  speaking  of  Rupert,"  ran 
on  Miss  Everard,  in  a  breathless  sort  of  way,  «  he  wanted 


r 


\Wf'{'^^- 


Gl/y  LEGARD. 


319 


tP  commence^  his  great  pictuîe  of  '  Fair  Rosamond  and 
tleanor'  ye/terday-and  how  could  he  when  Ekanor 
neyer  came/  Why  didn't  you-you  promised  ?  » 
I  changed  my  mind,  I  suppose." 

"No;  thanks.     It's  going  to  rain  " 

wouIdW  corne  himself.  only  my  lady  is  ill  to-day  with 
one  of  her.bad  he.daches,  and  asked  hL  to  read  heTto 

V],    'i  ".'  "'^  ^'^  ^^^  ^^y  ^-'  he  is  ia  L  mlin 
Vfhough   ^ockingly  lazy,  he  obeyed.      Do  corne,  Aile"^'  ^ 
"  there's  a  daaï- 1    Don't  be  selfish."  , 

Miss  Jocyln  rose  rather  abruptiy. 
.        "  I  hâve  no  désire  to  be  selfish,  Miss  EvePard.     If  you 

.  r!l^'^"i^^^  ^"'  ^"^  '^'P^  ^'•^^  t^«  ^00"»  stately  and 
qplifted.     May  looked  after  her,  fidgeting  a  little. 

„  7f^\J^^:  ^  ^"PPOse  she  is  oflfended  now  at  that 
Word  selfish  '  I  never  did  get  on  very  well  with  Aileen 
Jocyln,  and  l'm  afraid  I  never  shall.  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  she  were  jealous." 

Miss  Everard  Jaughed  a  little  silvery  laugh  ail  to  herself,    " 
and^  slapped  her   kid    riding-bpot  with  her   pretty  to; 

nîl!  .-^Tvf  ^  ^'"^"'^  '"*^"^P*  *  *^"^^^  déclaration  that 
night  m  the  conservatory  ;  but  it  looked  like  it     If  I  d« 

I  am  sure  Rupert  hashadfifty  c^nces  since,  andiknowhe 
hat  d,W  ^  'iT''°'  then(/or  Aileen  wo'uld  neverJear  - 

V,  «ic  wuuiu  sp*  '^'»  impaled  with  ' the — - 


rJiJ-. .  i  i,-.i»»  ,   %■"-.. '«1  •.«à,rh , . 


>^.^ 


■*-M 


320        "  S/A' Av^rs' //£://;>^ 

greatest  pleasure  if  she  pnly  thc^ught  I  suspected  Jt:  but 
I  m  not  so  certam  about  liim.  He's  a  greai  dea/  tob,  iW 
lent,,m  the  first  place,  to  get  u,>a  grand  p^sion,  foï.any. 

^  body;  and  I.think  he's  inclined  to  look  graciously  on  m. 
-poor  httle  n.e-in  the  second.  Voii  may  spare  yoWtf 
the  trouble,  my  dear  Sir  Rupert,  for  | gentlemaniwhose chie( 

^  a.m  in  existence  is  to  smoke  Turkish  pipes,  and  lie  on  ihj- 
grass,  and  write  and  rea^  poet.7,  is  not  at  ail  the  soil  o? 
nian  I  jiiean  to  bless  for  life.  / 

"  Telf  me  not  of  your  soft  sigbing  lovera, 
,  -         «    Siich  things  may  be  had  by  the  score  ; 

i'd  rather  bc  bride  1,0  a  rover,"- 
And  polish  the  rifle  he  bore." 

Sang  May  Everard,  in  a  gay  little  voice  as  Miss  Tocyl,,.  in 
a  fiowmg  riding  habit,  entered  the  room. 

The  two  girls  descended  to  the  court-yard,  mounted,  and 
node  oflF.  Both  rode  well  and  both  looked  their  best  on 
horseback  and  made  a  Wonderfully  pretty  picture  as  they 
galloped  through  St.  Gosport  in  dashlng  style,  bringing 
the  adminng  population  in  a  rush  to  doors  and  window^ 
Perhaps  Sir  Rupert  Thetford  thought  so,  too,  as  he  stood 
at  the  great  front  entrante  to  redeive  thei  with  a  kindling  . 
light  m  his  artist's  eyes.     .  ^  *    .v 

"May  said  she  would  fetch  you,  and  ivlay  always  keeps 
her  Word,"  he  said,  as  he  walked.  slowly  up  the  sweeping 
staircasej  «besides,  Aileeii,  I  am  to  havi  the  first  sitting 
for  the  'Rosamond  and  Elknor'  to^day,  am  I  not?  May 
call;i  me  an  idle  dre^^mer,  a  useless  drone  in  the  busy  hu- 
man  hive  ;  so.  to  vindicatSp  my  charactfer,  and  cleave  a 
niche  m  the  temple  of  famé,  I  am  goinu  to  immortalize 
niyself  over  thls  painting."  ^ 


\ 


t 


j^  >.  -<i  ^^ 


i-  „..ife&«,v 


'*, 


m  W  ' 

*• 

m   ,; 

■  f*.  ■    '*-^?^ 

t 

^UV  LEGARD. 

,     human  efforts  ànd^vn      f^f  ""S^^'l-^  ^-d  "i'h  super- 

for.i,  is  h^  finishe'^   Idt  "7"  '""  8«  ^i'^"  o'  i>  be- 

laubea  canvas  h,  voir  «  L      '  ^°  '°  '*'"  "^^  P"«  »' 
taowyou."  '^       «uio.now.    Don't  tell  me!    r 

'  Évërart  ?■"'*'  '^'"'  P°'«''"«  opinion  of  me,  Mis, 

Princely  income  vou  m.Vhf  k!        r  ^       Thetford,  witlr  a 
a  sh4  and^a  ùfi:,  ^fe^t^^f  ^  ■"-    ^s  i.  is-- 

redde^^'l-e"::;,;!  ;•;  :«rs't™TeT'r'"^'°  '^"«''  ^"^ 

_    ern  Murillo     Are  v„„  „         ,    ,      *  ''''""  ""'"-a  mod- 
- -\rco'^- .S:r  W"'.^;^.     She  d. 

w'.atrigh.had  .his  lKittrl''"T''"^'''°-^' 
.betweenthemandtayiikeSis"     ^"1!?^^^  '°  «orne 

Ht^lre'';'ide""S'  ">■■*,'  '^'-^  ^^  ""  "«<■  -     - 

^e.d  up.  in:p::;^'t  ;r:f  '''"^'^'  -^^  ^-^  ^^ 

"  -Jeannie  D'Arc  before  her  Judïes.'  h»lf  «„•  i,  j 
-suai  and  never  ,o  be  completei"lS  ^ll  ^^,'^, 
ever  .s  completed.     'Battle  of  Bo^worth  fS;^    V  " 
"ig  colors,  ail  confusion  ,„j     ""^wortn  field,   m  flam-- 

mbbish,  y™  did  „eU  ^î  ,ô  tlT    '  '"■'  '■'^  "^^'^  »"''     • 

_„____îîe— ^.  du  i  mat  is  pretty.    /^Stbrm  ïf  Sea,^ 


\, 


^  i^&^i^'^i-  =*■  -• 


'^ 


ïSlV 


1/ 


O^ 


'('lih 


;** 


322 


S/X  NOEVS  HEIR. 


just  tolerable  'Trial  of  Marie  Antoinette.'  My  dea, 
Kupert,  why  „„l  you  per.ist  in  thèse  figure  paintingfwhe" 
you  Icnow  your  forte  islandscape?  'An  Evening^h  ,h" 
Rernal  Qty  •    Nw  that  is  what  I  call  an  exquifite  li ttl 

^^"aTI     "'■'''^°"''"  almostfeel  the  „i„d 
yXf.Rupe*:»''™^''^'^  «gure-„hy.  that  looks  UUe 

""Itis  myself." 

"  And  the  other  stoopiiig—who  is  he^  " 

"The  painter  of  >hat  picture,  Miss  Everard  :  yes   the 
cnly  th.ng  ,n  n.y  poor  studio  you  see  fit  to  eulogii^fs'  no 
mme.     It  was>ne%y  an  artist  friend-an  unkno^n  Eng 
hshman,  jdio  sàved  my  life   in  Ron#  three  years   ago 

■    r^  '"'  "^f^f  ™^""'  ^""^  ^^^^"^  y°"^  ^^^  fro"!  the  twoi 
edged  sword  of  May  Everard's  tongue  " 

J^'l  ^;dy  Thetford,  pale  and  languid,  appeared  on  the 
threshold,  wrapped  in  a  shaWl. 

fhu??  ^".  ^""^  ^\  ^^°^'  '"^'"'"^-  '  Corne  hère  and  look  at 

t  in  ,^r?."'"^7/^^EternaI  City.'   Rupert  has  nothing like 

it  m  ail  his  collection,  though  there  are  the  beginniL  of 

""Ohrfrt^f  ^^^  How'was'ft?» 

Oh  !  a  httie  affair  with  brigands  ;  nothing  very  thrill- 

lï fils  L       :^)r''  '""  '"^^'  °^  ^^P^"-^  ^»  t^e  sa^ 
if  th,s  Legard  had  not  corne  to  the  resçue.    May  is  n^t 

about  the  picture;  he  painted  well,  had  corne  to  Vomë^to 
perfecthirnself  in  his  art.  Very  fine  fellow,  LegàTdla 
thorough  Bohemian."  ^^ë^ra    a 

"  "  Legard  !" 

denly.     She  had  çût  up  her  glass  to  look  at  the  Italian 
ncture,  but  dropp^d  it,  and  faced  abruptly  round 


\ 


V    B^i^i^4J         t^,-tj,v.i,ft^*jâ«'l      ■^    /*!*    V.^<U 


''  rî'nnfirT     ■  IT  r  -■■  ^^c'' 


GC/y  LEGARD. 


323 


Pris^bv^t;  ^    r  ^'  ■'  ^'"'  '^"  *™'  y"  "o-W  be  snr- 

Syiî^^îïir  M  '  ""'«'"«  °™^  ""^'^  i"  *e  picture-gal- 
fel^Ho  a  ,h  h"'  T'  ""'  *=  ^™«  P'"'""  <=ast%f 

^frrutï-  »;;dr:;x'::!f."-^''-"'- 

^et  a  glass  of  water,  May—she  is  <îiih,Vnf  *«  *i. 
tacks.     Quick  1  "  J^^*  ^°  '^^^  at- 

£LiLitt7r4irr.Cai^^ 

l.ke,  m  con  ras.  „i.h  her  darkga™e„,s artd^deld  Wa.^kZr 
.er  re.ur„  and  lie  do™.     VouUpe^e'^^^s.^.^'- 

^eafr.'3catd^.::— -ï^^^^^^ 

Go  on  w,a  whatyou  were  sayihg,  Ruper..^'     "'""  ^°"- 
„  -T"^'  I  "as  saying  ?  what  was  it  ?  " 

"  Oh  I  well,  there's  no  more  to  say,  that  is  ail     H- 

ron?„d'^;,td:"'  .«"^--^"^  -  - 


>^ 


,ïâtv;. 


,r^ 


ii1liiiV,'.-t"i    , 


■VI 


524 


S//1  NOEVS  HEIR. 


whoip  he  resembles  so  strongly.     That  is  ail  ;  and  now 
young  Iad.es  if  you  will  take  your  places,  we  wiU  commence 
^  the  Rosafnond  and  Eleanor.      Mother,  sit  hère  by  thi« 

wmdow,  if  you  want  to  play  propriety,  and  don't  talk  " 
But  Lady  Thetford  chose  to  go  to  her  own  room  :  and 
^  her  son  gave  her  his  arm  thither,  and  left  her  lying  back 
amongst  her  cushions  in  front  of  the  fire.  It  was  always 
chilly  m  those  great  and  somewhat  gloomy  rooms,  and  her 
ladyship  was  always  cold  of .  late.  She  lay  'there  looking 
with  gloomy  eyes  into  the  ruddy  blaze,  and  holding  her 
hands  over  her  painfully  beating  heart. 

"  It  is  destiny,  I  suppose,"  she  thought,  bitterly  :  'Met 
me  banish  him  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  earth  ;  let  me 
keep  him  irf  poverty  and  obscurity  ail  his  life,  and  when  the 
day  cornes  that  it  is  written,  Guy  Legard  will  be  hère.  Soon- 
er  or  later,  the  vow  I  hâve  broken  to  Sir  Noël  Thetford 
must^be  kept  j  sooner  or  later,  Sir  Noël 's  heir  will  hâve  his 
own. 


»  — 


.^..,,.-»-v. 


i^feaÎBJiAtWsB;^,-*!'* -,  ^Kj  , .  . 


CHAPTER  X. 

ASKING   IN   MARRIAGE. 

HEfireburned  in  Lady  Thetford's  room,  and 
among  piles  o£  silken  pillows  my  lady,  languid 
and  pale,  lay,Iooking  into  the  leapingflame.-  It 

a  wheeïTf  7'  ^^^"^  T"^^'  "'°'"^"^'  *^"  ^""  blazec^like 
a  wheelof  fire  m  a  sky  without  a  cloud,  but  Lady  Thet- 

now  and  7^  "7  "'""'  '^^'  and  glanced  impatiently 
now  and  then  at  the  pretty  toy  clock  on  the  decorated 
chimney-piece.  The  house  was  very  still;  its  one  dS 
turb.ng  élément,  Miss  Everard,  waT  absent  with  S^ 
Rupert  for  a  morning  canter  over  the  sunny  Devon  hills 

Ihe  toy  clock  struck  up  a  gay.little  waltz  prepar^lory'to 
straking  eleven,  and  my  lad^  turned  with  a  LLs.  Împl' 
tient  sigh  among  her  pillows.  .      pa 

"  How  long  they  stay,  and  thèse  solitary  rides  are  so 
dangerous  I  Oh  !  what  will  become  of  me  Yl  it  is  too  L^ 
after  ail  I    What  shall  I  do  if  he  says  no  ?  "  ^ 

There  was  a  quick  man's  step  >*ithout-a  moment,  and 

from  his  ride,  was  bending  over  his  mother. 

Louise  says  you  sent  for  me  after  I  left.    What  is  it 
mother— you  are  npt  worse  ?"  ^ 

1 


\ 


rt[ 


,^ié  ^^MkP'^xx   «  • 


■M>A 


►>*^,.r— 


326 


SIR  NOEVS  HEIR. 


brown  haïr  with  tender  touch,  and  gazed  in  fhe  handsomé 
face,  so  hke  her  own,  with'eyes  full  of  unspeakable  lové. 

"  My  boy  !  my  boy  I  »  she  murmured,  «  my  darling  Ru. 
pert  !    Oh  !  it  is  hard,  it  is  bitter  to  hâve  to  leave  you.  » 

"Motherl"  with  a  quick  look  of  alarm,  "what  is  it  ? 
Are  you  worse ?" 

"NowoFse,Rupert;  but  no  better.     My  boy,  I  shall 
neverbe  better  again  in  this  world." 
"Mother— " 

"Hush,    my  Rupert— yvait  ;  you  know  it  is  true  ;-and 
but  for  leaving  you  I  should  be  glad  to  go.     My  îife  has 
notbeén  sohappysince  your  father  died,  He^ven  knowë 
that  I  should  greatly  cling  to  it."  ,  * 

"  But,  mother,  this  won't  do  j  thèse  >iorbid  fancies  are 
worst  ofyall.  Keeping  up  one's  spirits  i  is  half  the  battle.'^ 
"I  jïhï.  not  morbid  ;  I  mer'ely  state  a  fact— a  fact  which 
mus^  préface  what  is  to  coipe.  Rupert,  I  know  I  am 
dyitjg,  and  before  we  part  I  want  to  see  my  successor  at 
Thetford  Towers.  "  '         - 

^  "  My  dear  mother  !  "  amazedly. 

"Rupert,  I  want  to  see  Aileen  Jocyln  your  wife.  No, 
no  ;  don't  interrupt  me,  and  believe  me,  I  dislike  match' 
making  quite  as  cordially  as  youvdo;  but  my  days  on 
earth  are  numbered,  and  I  must  speak  before  ftis  too  late. 
.  When  we  were  abroad  I  thought  there  never  would  bç  oc-  ^ 
casion  ;  when  we  returned  home  I  thought  so,  too,  Rupert 
I  hâve  ceased  to  think  so  since  May  Everard's  return." 

The  young  man's  face  flushed  suddenly  and  liotly,  but 
he  made  no  reply. 

"  How  any  man  in  his  sensés  could  possiWy  prefer  May 
to  Aileen  is  a  mystery  I  cannot  solve  ;  but  then  thèse 
things  puzzle  the  wisest  Df  us  at  times.     Mind,  my  boy,  I 


*t 


ffi^aùtdi^l^'^js^^^Àj'^y^i^â^&i^     '>,-jA 


ASKII^G  IN  MARRIAGE. 


don  t  reaJly  sày  you  do  prefer  May_I  should  be  ver>'  un- 
happy  ,f  I  thought  so.  1  know-I  am  certain  you  love 
Aileen  best  ;  and  I  am  equally  certain  she  is  a  thousand 
times.better  suited  to  you.  Then.  as  a  man  of  honor,  you 
owe  it  to  ber  You  hâve  paid  Miss  Jocyln  such  attention 
as  no  honorable  gentleman  should  pay  any  lady,  except  the 
one  he  means  to  make  his  wife." 

LadyThetford's  son  rose  abruptly,  and  stood  leaning 
agamst  the  mantel,  looking  steadfastly  into  the  fire 

"Rupert,'tell-me  ^ruly,  if  May  Everard  had  not  come 
hère  wouldyo«-not  before  this  hâve  asked  Aileen  to  be 
your  wife  ?" 

"  Yes-no-I  don't  know.    Mother!"  the  young  man 

TnV7"T'''^\  '' "'''^^  '^^  ^^^^  ^^^^-^  do-  that  you 
should  treatherhke  this?" 

"N^thlng;  I  love  h'er  dearly,  and  you  know  it.  But 
she  is  not  suued  to  you-she4s  not  the  wbman  you  should 
marry,  '  •'         ^«»« 

Sir  Rupert  laughed— a  hard  strident  ïaugh 
"  I  thhik  Miss  Everard  is  muchof  your  opinion,  my  lad^ 
You  m,ght  hâve  spared  yourself  ail  thèse  fears  aniZ-p^ex-' 

hrdVa:ktd^''"'''""''''''^\ 

'     "  Rupert  !»  >     • 

^..'1^T.™'''^''■  "?^"''  "°  "'"^  ^°  ^^^  that  frightened 
1  ^^^^,"\^^''-d  Miss  Everard  in  so  many  words  to 

would  jf  I  did.     I  saw  enough  to-day  for  that." 
conJ^Z.'^"'"""^^^^^^^^"  -thalookofblank  ' 

"  I  carefor  he;  very  much.  mother  ;  and  I  haven't  owned 
to  hemg  t^bsolutely  m  love  witfa^ourpretty  imie  May.  Fer 


\&j^^. 


fK      .^    .»  ..<      «     L-> 


)  . 


3^8 


^/iV  /  oEns 


%Iie;r. 


haps  I  care  for  one  as  much  as  the  other  ;  perhapsj  know 
m  my  mmost  heart  she  is  the  one  I  should  marry.  Thaï 
is,  if  she  will  marry  me." 

"  Vou  owe  ît  to  her  to  ask  her." 

"Dol?     Verylikely;  and  it  would  make"  you  hapnv 
Diy motheç  ?"  ^    . ' 

He  came  and  bent  over  her  again,  smiling  down  in  her 
wan,  anxio^s  face. 

More  hâppy  thah  anything  else  in  this  wbrid,  Rupert  ?  " 
"Thenconsiderit  an  .accomplished  fact.     Before  the 
sun  sets  to-day  Aileen  Jocyln  shall  say  yes  or  no  to  your 
son."  ,  ■' 

He  bent  and  kisse^  her  ;  th|n,  without  waiting  for  her 
to  speak,  wheeled  round  and  strode  out  of  the  àpartment. 

"There  is  nothing  likt  striking  while  the  iron  is  hôt  " 
said  the  young  man  to  himself  with  a  grim  sort  of  sm^e 
as  he  ran  down  stairs  ;  "  for  good  or  for  evil,  tljere  is  no 
time  hke  the  présent,  my  stately  Aileen." 

Loitering  on  the  lawn,  he  encountered  May  Everard 
still  ip  her  riding-habit,  surrounded  by.three  or  four  poo- 
die  dogs. 

" Qn  the  wing  again,  Rupert?    Is  it  for  mamma ?    She 
is  not  worse  ?" 

"No;  I  am  going  to  Jocyln  HalL     Perhaps  I  shall 
fetch  Aileen  back," 

May's  turquoise  blue  eyes  were  lifted  with  a  sudden 
lummous,  intelligent  flash  to  his  face. 

"  G6d  5peed  you  I  You  will  certainly  fetch  Aileen  back  1  ' 

She  held  out  her  hand  MJth  a  smile  that  told  him  ^he 
knew  ail  as  plainly  as  he  knew  it  himself. 

"  You  hâve  my  best  wishes,  Rupert,  and  don't  linger  :  I 
want  to  oongratulate  Aileen.  "  "^ 


r' 

* 

1 

' 

• 

> 

- 

•\ 

. 

',■ 

• 

n 

\ïîi 

1                  '~~~S- 

* 

,A 


ASKING  IN  MARRTAGE.  „ 

Sir  Rupert's  resppnse  to  thèse  good  wishes  wis  v  .r„ 

■    ■  rôsyî^r        ■"'^^'>'^™'»  «""  ^"•«^  riPPling  round  hcr 

caûdl^J Ja/ri^  v"  ^"'"^  '■"  '''°'  °^  ■'"  ««'«~  a 
«aunten-hg    az.ly  along  in  the  midst  o£  her  little  do^s 
■and  r.al  y  ,t  is  high  tim=,  if  she  ràeans  to  hâve  A,S 

r     ^kT!"  ''"'  '°'  *=  '-'^  °f  Tl,etford7ow       i 
rafter  doubtfnl  that  he  is  not  falling  i„  love  wûh  Le 
and  A„ee„  i,  dreadfully  jealous  and  disagréeab        and 
my  tadys  anxious,  and  fidgefed  .„,  death  !bou.  U 1  aûd 
S.r  Rupert  doesn't  want  ,o  himself  i£  he  can  help  it     I 

ZiZ  ■''^""f  r^T'hing;  at  the  same  time  Beauty," 
whh  ,^  T;^  ■-<^y  add,,33i„g  ,h^  ^    ^^^^  ^j  ,he  poodiés 

Têts    hê  î,:!u'''fK"°''  '■"'^^-^■"''"spare.hem!    ■ 
selves  the  trouble  of  bemg  tormented  on  the  suBject  • 

land,  muchlessThetford  Towers.  He's  a  verv  nice  vo.Z. 
.man,a„da  very  amiableyoung  .an,  and  a  ve^ry g^Xl^ 
■ng  young  „a„,  I  hâve  no  doubt  ;  but  rm  not  In  love  ^,h 

Italian  bngand,  or  a  knighf  of  the  road,  «ould  siit  mî 

M^f  '  ^        r  ^"  R"P«n-ol>-h-h  I  good  gracions  I  » 
Sh!^f^?*'"'i  ^'oPP'^with  a  shriU,  femiLe  shriek' 

tood  talkmg  to  the  lodge-keeper,  mth  a  big  Ne«lound 
■and  dog  gambolBng  pondero„»ly  about  hil"  Tte^— 


'j5ti  -i  I»  ..«^*iiSmi ./:  'M  .J,  j'jiii  4  rf'J  iîtrfMi,^'j.«jitf* 


■,î»„ 


:-pi.-ttiWi.:^ 


330 


^/A'  A'OErS  HEIR. 


Newfoundland  made  an  instant  dash  into  Mis»  ilverard'j 
guard  of  honor,  with  one  deep,  bass  bark,  like  distant 
thunder,  and  which  eflfectually  drowned  the  yelps  pf  the 
poodles.  Mayflewtothe  rescue,  seizirig  the  Ne\vfound- 
land's  collar,  and  pulling  him  back  with  ail  the  might  of 
two  little  white  hands. 

"  Yougieat,  horrid  br^te  !  ^'  cried  May,  with  flashing  eyes, 
"how  dare  youl  Call-off  your  dog,  sir,  this  instant  1  Don't 
you  see  how  he  is  frightgning  mine  !  "'    ' 

She  l^rned  imperiously^to  t}[iç.  Néwfoundland's  master, 
the  bright  eyes  flashing  the  pink  cheeks  aflame— v^  prêt' 
ty,  indeed,  in  her  wrath.  t 

"  Down,  Hector  !  "  called  the  young  man,  authoritatively  ; 
and  Hector,  like  the  well-trained  animal  he  was,  subsided  ia- 
stantly.  «I  beg  your  pardon,  young  lady!  Hector,  you. 
stir  at  your  péril,  sir  I  I  am  very  sorry  he  has  alarmed 
you." 

He  doflFed  his  cap  with  careless  grâce,  and  made  the 
angry  little  lady  a  courtly  bbw. 

"He  didn't  alarm  me,"  replied  May,  testily;  "he  only 
alarmed  my  dogs.     Why,  dear  me  !   how  very  odd  !  " 

Miss  Everard,  lookjng  full  at  the  young  man,  ha^  start- 
ed  bâck  with  this  exclamation,  and  stared  bÉ^adly.  A 
tall,  powerful  looking  young  fellow,  rather  dust/ and  travel- 
stained,  but  eminently  gentlemanly,  with  frank,  blue  eyes, 
and  profuse  fair  hair,  and  a  handsbme,  candid  face. 

"  Yes,  Miss  May,"  struck  in  the  lodge  keeper,  "it  îs  odd  ! 
Isee  it,  too!  He  look?  enough  like  Sir  .Noël,  dead  an^ 
gone,  to  be  his  oun  son  !  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  May,  becoming  conscious  of 
her  wide  stare,  "but  is  your  name  Legard;  and  are  you 
a  fiiend  of  Sir  Ruptert  Thetford ?" 


!►■■ 


If 


w^\ 


1i^       V  ASKING  IN  MARRIAGE.        •'         33  j 

<    JYés,  to  both  questions,"  with  a  smile  that  May  liketL 
You  :see  the  resemblance  too.  then,     Sir  Rupert  used  to 

spealf  of  it.     Is  he  at  home  ?" 
•*Not  just  now;  but  he  will  be  very  soon,  and  I  know 

will  be  glad  to  see  Mr.  Regard.     You  had  better  corn* 

and  wait. 

<^"  And  Hector,"  said  Mr.  Legard.  "  I  think  I  had  better 
l^ve  him  behind,  as  I  see  him  eyeing  your  guard  0f  honor 
with  anything  but  a  friendly  eye.  I  believç-I  i^ave  the 
pleasure  of  addressing  Miss  Everard  ?  Oh  !  "  laughing 
franklyathersuçprised  face,  «Sir  Rupert  showecj  me  a 
photograph  of  yours  as  a  child.  I  hâve  a  good  memory 
for  faces,  and  knew  you  at  once." 

Miss  Everard  and  Mr.  Legard  fell  èasily  info  conversa- 
hon  at  once,  as  if  they  had  been  old  friends.     Lady  Thet- 
ford's  ward  was  one  of  those  people  who  form  their  likes  . 
and  dishkes  at  first   sight  ;  and  Mr.  Legard's  face  would 
hâve  been  a  pretty  sure  letter  of  recommendation  to  him 
.  the  wide  wprld  over.^    May  liked  his  looks;  and  then  he 
was  Sir   Rupert's   friend,  and   she  was   never  particular 
about  social  forms  and  customs;  and   so   they  dawdled 
about  the  grounds,  and  through  the  lëafy  arCades,  in  the 
génial  morning  sunshine,  talking  about  Sir  Rupert  and 
Rome,  and  art  and  artist^f^d  the  tbousand  and  one 
things  that  turn  up  ù^^nversation  ;   and  the  momenta^V 
shpped  by,  half  hour  followed  half  hour,  until  Mayvjerked  • 
out  her  watch  at  last  in  a  sudden  fit  of  recollection;  and 
tound,  to  her  consternation,  it  was  past  two. 
^  "  What  will  mamma  say  !  "  cried  theyoung  lady,  aghasU 
And  Rupert;  I  dare  say  he's  home  to  lunoheon  before 
thi.-     Let  us  go.back  to  the  house,  Mr.  Legard.     I  had 
PO  dea  it  was  half  so  late." 


3f.    " 


kiJ'A'Ô»vVi'!i? 


'ai,.' 


>*rra 


332 


i/yP  AOEL'^  IIEIR. 


Mr.  Legard  laughed  frankly. 

"The  honesty  of  that  speech  is  the  highest  flatterv  m.  - 
conversat^onal   powers  ever   received,  mIs   Ev    Id 

For  riding  slowly  up  under  the  sunlit  trees  came  tl,. 
young  baronet.  As  Mr.  Legard  spoke,  his  giancé  fenupon 
them  t,     young  lady  and  gentleman  adv'andng  s"  con 
fid.u.ally,  wuh  half  a  do^en  curlypoodles  friskh^  a.ord 

Ifmutin^itT  ^"'"'  ^•-ed,would  be  a  mild  wly 
ot  puiting  it-h.s  eyes  ppened  in  wide  wonder.  ^ 

Guy  Legard  !  " 

"ThetfordJ     My  deur  Sir  Rupert  I  " 

Tlie  baronet  leaped  off  his  horse,  his  eyes  li^hHn.       a 

"  Where  in  theworld  did  you  drop  from,  and  how  under 

he  Sun  do  you  corne  to  be  on  such  uficommon-yTriendlv 

footing  with  Miss  Everard ?"  ^  rnendly 

"  I  leave  the  expl^nation   to  Mr    Leo-arrï  "  c^-j   i^c 
blushing  a  little  under  Sir  Rupert.  g^Ifcl  '«^rnl  f  ^' 
and  see  mamma,  only  premising  that  luncheoUour  s  paf^ 
and  you  had  better  not  linger."  ^     ' 

She  tripped  away,  and  the  two  young  men  followed  more 
slowly  mto  the  house.     Sir  Rupert  led  his  ixZmTx 
stodio,  and  left  him  to  inspect  the  pictures  ^"' 

"Whilst  I  speak  a  word  to  my  mother,  '  he  said  •  '  îf 

will  detain  me  hardly  an  instant."      r  "^^^'^^    -»t 

"Ail  right  I  "  said  Mr.  Legard,  bovishlv     "  nn«'»  u 
yourself  on  my  account,  you  kno;  "         ■  """  t^"^ 

Lady  Thetford  lay  where  her  son  had  left  her  :"  lav  as 
Vf  sheiad  hardly  stirred  since.     %  Ipoked  up/^dL,î 


ASKIXG  IN  AfARRIAGE. 


w 


?ry  «ri) 

Prd.     I 
^upert 


le  tlie 
I  upon 
)  con- 
round 
1  wa^ 


3JL 

-rose  as  he  came  in,  her  eyes   painfully.  intensely  anxious 
But  h  s  face,  grave  and  quiet,  told  nothing. 
Well,"  she  panted,  lier  eyes  giittering 
"  It  is  well,  mother.     Aileen  Jocyln  has  promised  to  bc 
conie  my  wife."  "^ 

"ThankGod!" 

LadyThetford   sunk  back,  her  hands   clasped   tightlv 
over  her  heart,  Us  loud  beating  plainly  audible      Hef  son 
looked  down  at  her,  his  face  keeping  it.  steady  grav  ty^ 
none  of  fhe  rapture  oï  an  accepted  lover  there.     ^       ^^ 
You  are  content,  motHer?"  ', 

"  More%ian  content,  Rupert.     And  you  >  " 
He  sm.led,  and  stooping,  kissed  the  wom,  pallid  face 
"I  would  do  a  great  déal  to  make  you  W  mother   . 
>ut     would  «./  ask  a  woman  I  did  noMove^  to''^'  ^yt  fe'^ 
Be  a  rest  ;  ail  ,s  well  with   me.      And  now  I   must  l^le 
you,  if  you  will  not  go  down  to  luncheon  " 

More  han  May.  A  friend  of  mine  has  arrived  !nd 
wiU  stay  with  us  for  a  few  weeks  "  '     ^ 

Lady  Thetford's  face  had  been  flushed  and  eager  but 
at  the  last  words  it  suddenly  blanched.  ^    ' 

"  A  friend,  Rupert I     Who ?" 

icssiy,     ûis  name  is  Guy  Legard." 


/ 


'.^"•-t 


i,'t'*;l"ï    ,  kji.  n  i/t»ÎS&'j¥s!2_'>^»'^_j^Ê^. 


CHAPTER  Xl. 

ON   THE   WEDDING   EVE. 

HE  family  al'  Thetford  Towers  were  a  good 
deal  surprised,  a  few  hours  later  that  day,  by 
the  unexpected  appearance  of  L^dy  Thetford  at 
dinner.  ,Wan  as  some  spirit  of  the  moonhght, 
8he  came  softly  in,  just  as  they  entered.  the  dining-room  ; 
and  her  son  pres^ènted  his  friend,  Mr.  Legard,  at  once. 

"  His  resemblance  to  the  family  wîll  be  the  surest  paL 
port  to  your  favor,  mother  mine,"  Sir  Rupert  '«aid,  gayly. 
"  Mrs.  We>Tnore  met  him  just  now,  and  recoi'led  with^  a 
shriek,  asthough  she  had  seen  a  ghost.  Extraordinary, 
isn  t  it — this  chance  resemblance  ?  " 

"Extraordinary,"  Lady  Thetford  said,  «but  not  at  ail 
unusual.  Of  course,  Mr.  tegatd  is  not  even  remotely 
connected  with  the  Thetford  family  ?" 

She  asked  thcTjuestion  witlîôut  lookingat  him.  She  kept 
her  eyes  fixed  on  her  plate,  for  that  fair  face  before 
herwas  terrible  to  her  almost  as  a  ghost.  It  was  the 
days  of  her  youth  over  again,  and  Sir  Noël,  her  husband. 
once  more  by  her  side.^ 

«  Not  that  I  am  aware  of,"  Mr.  Legard  said,  running 
lîis  fingers  through  his  abundant  blonde  hair.    "  But  I  may 
be,  for  ail  that.    I  am  like  the  hero  of  a  novel— a  mysteri 
ous  orphan— only,  unfortunately,  with  no  identifying  straw 


V 


v4^-t. 


.* 


a^'.-T^'' 


<     l. 


ON  THÇ  WEàDiKC  EVE. 


■•aphy  of  the  man  in  ,he  moon  "  ^°  °'  *'  ""os 

"No.ïsaid  Mr.  Legard  n-avi-lv  o„j      .•   ■ 
.      stand  as  toully  aloneln  l^Zt^k  !^    I!    '"'  '''"^'  "  ^ 

EnglandforÂLricT^dama  '"'k"'-°"'I  "-"■>«!  left 
took  n,e.  and  gave  Itfs  n™:"'  "d"'?'  "™=^  ^«ard, 
cornes  in;  a  ladv  a  tall  ^l?    .  tf  *"'  *«  "•<>"'»"« 

■nine.  paid  those  wt^kepTlf         '^'  """^  *^«  «" 
Legard  for  his  to^  X'riTa  '    "'''  ^"^  P'"' 
since  ;  and  I  sometiraes  th Lr-'li   t       T-f  "™  '«' 
she  n,ay  hâve  been  ™ylt"!^,    ^^  ""'^  '-«"g-  "ftatr  ,• 
"  îf;;  and  i.  4  sM^i^d  rtor„rar '^ '-' 

And  you  never  saw  fte  lady  after?^'    MayL.«l 

l-lyraouth  I    h;  ^Lh^      °^  '°  ''''^*^  "«l™  Ada, 
Wsart. and di2   ^^JF^  t"^  '"'.  '>°e'«  -e 


position  .  ^LTk-  1-:"!  7"?.!!''°  '°"'-P-«'-end  mv 


■"  rt    !>     ^  J,  f 


t,      1-5* 


^^ 


35^ 


S//^  NOEVS  HEIR. 


to  return  '  Madain  Ada  '  her  remittances,  wi:h  a  few  sham 
inies,  that  effectually  put  an  end  to  them." 

"  Hâve  you  ever  tried  to*  ferret  out  the  mystery  o£  your 
birth,  and  this  Madam  Ada  ?  "  inquired  Sir  Rupert. 
A[r.  Legard  shook  his  head. 

"No,  why  should  I  ?    I  dare  say  I  should  hâve  no  rea 
son  to  be  proi;d  of  my  parents  if  I  did  find  them;  and 
they  evidently  were  not  very  proud  of  me.     ♦  Where  ignor- 
ance is  bliss,'  etc.     If  destiny  has  decreed  it,  I  shall  know 
^    soonerorlater;  if  destiny  has  not,  then.my  puny  efforts 
•  will  be  of  no  avail.    But  if  presentiments  mean  anything  I 
r       !^^"  one  day  know  ;  and  I  hâve  no  doubt,  if  I  searchéd 
Devonshire,  I  should  find  Madam  Ada." 

Ma^Everard  âtarted  up  with  a  cry,  for  Lady  Thetford 
had  fallen  back  in  one  of  Oiose  Sudden  spasms  to  which 
-^    she  had  lately  become  subjeêt.     In  the  universal  conster- 
nation,  Guy  Legard  and  his,»story  were  forgotten. 

"  I  hope  what  I  saj^ad  nothing  to  do"  with  this  "  he 
^     cried  aghast  ;  and  M^^  following  so  suddenly  upon  the 
^  other  made  the  regiark  natural  enough.     But  Sir' Rupert 
tumçd  upon  him  Wnaughty  surprise. 

"What  you  4aidl  My  mother,  unfortunately,  has 
been  subject  «>  thèse  attàcks  for  the  past  two  years  Mr 
Legard.  T^t  wiU  do,  Mav  ;  Jet  me  assist  my  mothér  to 
her'room."|i        .  \ 

„  May  dréw  badk.  Lady  Thetford  was  able  to  rise 
pàHid  and  trembling,  and,  supported  by  her  son's  aron* 
to  walk  froni  the  room.  ' 

"Lady  Thetford's  health  is  very  délicate,  1  tear,"  Mr 
Legard  murmured,  sympathetically.  «  I  really  thought  for 
a  moment  my  story-telling  had  occasioned  her  sudden 
iUiiess." 


-Ail 


{■; 


.   K     nu.J,«l%*.^^^'^.î'"_ï-»*te,-<:.'-,jt 


•;r.*.Mi,*-- 


f»;     ,*/ 


^ 


OAT  THE  IVEDDING  f:VE.  ^ 


337 
Miss  Everard  ûxé^a.  oair  o£  h,v  .u-  - 

Sir  Noël  Thetford  '°  ''^'  '^'  ^^^'"^^  °"^  «^ 

-se  did7'"'"''  supposition,"  thouTht  the  young  lady  ; 

"  You  never  knew  Sir  Nnpl  >"  n      r 
fngly;  but,  of  course,  ™u  md„ot     S'  ^«"\'''^  »>«= 
he  died  Wore  he  was  bora  "  ^"1^"  *^  'o'"  "^ 

perfectlypeWfied  at  youTe!ct 'ordL°  rf '"^^  ""<^  ! 

Mrs.  Hilliard  saj.  yo'u  ha^tv^teH 'l^^V"  "'■"• 
expects  tp  get  over."  ™   ®^®  "^ver 

Mr.  Legard  smiled.  but  was  v^r.,  ^  .       ' 

-        ;;it  is  odd--odd-;erî  odd  P^  '^''^  ^^'■''''^- 

"Yes,"  said  Mav  Everard  u„f h  ^ 

deaI,too,tobeacL:r;:t:  enXÎ;  "^^^^' 

■     "C    "^f  '  ""^  *■-«  y-  '*  mam  "aT»    '""  """" 

^'fpn^;ZeXt:e.i;^r----ner. 

face.  A  WtionC  f  \'T  ^^''°"""8  ""^  «"  P^« 
<urnedhimhrrd,olXt™:i^"°"  "î*'  """d  ^at 
almost  a  certaintv     Thl  =^  ï  '"PPosition  that  wa, 

a  retributive  Providence  r^l  J     ^     ^  °'  "*•""■«•  >>"» 
It  came  back  toluZ     '"^"''"6  Ae  truth  of  his  birth 

Sard  had  spoken  ofa  ZZ  iTdT  M  d'  °'  ,"!?  """"    ^ 


338 


^IR  NOEVS  HEIR. 


1^*  arbiterofLegard'sfate?  The  name-the  place.   SirRupert 

Thetford  wrenched  his  thoughts  by  a  violent  effort  away. 
shocked  and  horrified  at  himself. 

"  It  cannot  be— it  cannot  ?  "  he  said  to  himself  possion- 
ately;  "I  am  mad  to  harbor  such  thoughts.  It  is  a  des- 
ecration  of  the  memor^  of  the  dead,  a  treason  to  the  living. 
But  I  wish  Guy  Legard  had  never  corne  hère." 

There  was  one  other  person  at  Thetford  Towers  strange- 
ly  and  strongly  effected  by  Mr.  Guy  Legard  j  and  that 
person,  oddly  enough,  was  Mrs.  Weymore,  the  govemess. 
Mrs.  \^ymore  had  never  even  seen  the  late  Sir  Noël  that 
any  one  knew  of,  and  yet  she  had  recoiled  with  a  shrill 
féminine  cry  of  utter  consternation  at  sight  of  the  voung 
m^n.  . 

^  "I  don't  see  why  you  should  get  the  fidgets  about  it 
Mrs.  Weymore,"  Miss  Everard  remarked,  with  her  great' 
bright  eyes  suspiciously  keen,  «  you  never  knew  Sir  Noël  " 
Mrs.  Weymore  sunk  down  on  a  lounge  quite  white  and 
startled.  ^ 

c  '1^^.»-''.  ^  ^^^  ^'^'^  P^^°"-     ï-ît  seems  strange. 
O  May  !      with  a  sudden  sharp  cry,  losing  self-control, 
who  is  that  young  man  ?  " 

"Why,  Mr.  Guy  Legard,  artist,"  answered  May,  com- 
posedly,  the  bright  eyes  still  on  thealert;  «formerlyin 
boyhood^  sunny  hours,'  you  know,  Master  Guy— let  me 
seel    Yes,  Vyking." 

"Vykingl"  repeated  Mrs.  Weymore  with  a  spasmodic 
cry  ;  and  thep  dropped  her  white  face  in  her  hands,  trera- 
blmg  from  head  to  foot 

"M'en,  upon  my  word,"  Miss  Everard  said,  addressing 
cmpty  space,  «  this  does  cap  the  globe  1  The  Mysteries  ol 
Udolpho  were  plain  reading  compared  to  Mr.  Guy  Vyking 


•V 


-,  T! 


't 


■i'-: 


ON  THE  IVEDDING  EVE 

and  the  effect  he  produces^on  people     H.'«  »      -   . 
someyoung  man,  and  a  vJZL^^         ^^"^  ^^"^ 
I  should  never  Mve  susn  Jf.H  ,^^'^^^^^^  ^«"«g  man  ;  but 
throwing  ail  the  elderL^^^^  ^^^  ^^^  «^ 

There's  Lady  Thetford  he  wll  .     """'''  ''^'^  ^"^P^"&  «^^ 

Weymore  going  into  hv,L    ^T^"^^™^  ^"^  ^^«-«'s  Mrs. 
Guy  VykinV  Vthoufc^  ^«  ^^  -"ed 

Weymoa^»  """'  ^^^«  ''«^n  Mrs. 

'^Tifc;:j;f  ^^^^^^  wbUe  as  ashes. 

know  o£Mr.  V^yking."  ^      '^'^y*  ""  "«  »«  yo» 

aru;s.hadgive/riitsti:r  *'"^"'^'-^-'^  ^^ 
May  Ëve^lr ''i: ''  '"^"^  ^'  =^''"  ^-luded 

a.d  I  d„„..  clearly/ee  hofut  but  >      'J'°"'  "'  """«• 
and  you  could  enlihten  ,L       '        "  "^  ""•. Weymore  j 

^p^ifs^'.hVrd:T„otir.f  '""^^  ""^  •"'^•«^'»'« 

"I  won't,"  s^d  mIv!'  ^bml'  '1'  ""■  '■^•" 
a  sensadtm  plav     l'm  «.,.•  ""«e-volume  novel,.or 

penormancf ,  md  l'm  afiaij  isSan  b»  deplor 


*^<-i 

>?»^ 


\ 


r-t-î^M'    -.■.  Vi«_; 


"I- 


Tfi^' 


$^  SIR  NOELS  HBIR. 

;      ably  in  love  with  him  shortly,  if  this  sort  of  thing  keep, 

Mr.  Legard,  himself,  took  the  matter  much  rac/re  coollv 
thaa  a^yone  else;  smoked  cigars  philosophically ;  criti-  ' 
,      fi^,^"P/'^  ^  P^^^'^es-did  a  li^tle  that  way  himself  • 
playfid  bilhards  with  his  host  ;  and  chess  with  Miss  Everard,' 
rode  with  that  young  lady,  walked  with  her.  sang  duetts 
with  her  m  a  deep  melodious  bass  ;  made  himself  foscina- 
ting,  and  took  the  world  easy. 
"It  is  no  use  getting  into  a  gale  about  thèse  things  »he 
^    said  to  Miss  Everard,  when  she  wondered  aloud  at  his 
constitution^  phlegm  ;  «  the  crooked  things  will  straighten 
of  themselves  if  we  give  then^time.     What  is  written  is 
wntten      I  know  that  I  shall  find  out  ail  about  myself  one 
day-hke  little  Paul  Dombey,  >  I  feel  it  in  my  bones  '  " 

Mr.  Leg#d  was  thrown  a  good  deal  «pon  Miss  Everard's 
resources  for  amusenient;  for,  of  course,  SirRupert's  time 
wâs  chiefly  spent  at  Jocyln  Hall,  and  Mr  Legard  bore  this 
with  evetl  ,greater  serenity  than  the  other.     Miss  Everard 
was  a  very  charming  little  girl,  with  a  laugh  that  was 
sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  âpheres,  and  hundreds  of  be- 
witchng  little  w^s  ;  and  Mr.  Legard  undertook  to  paint 
her  portrait,  and'found  it  the  most  absorbing  work  of  art 
he  had  ever  undertaken.  .As  for  the  young    baronet 
spending  his  time  at  Jocyln  Hall,  they  never  missed  him. 
lus  wooing  sped  on  smoothest  wings— Colonel  Jocyln  al 
most  as  much  pleased  as  my  lady  herself  ;  and  the  course  ci 
true  love  in  this  case  ran  as  smooth  as  heart  oould  wish 

Miss  Jocyln,  as  a  matter  or  course,  was  a  great  deal  al" 
T^ïietford  Towers,  and  saw  with  évident  gratification  the 
growmg  intimacy  of  Mr.  Legand  and  May.    It  would  be  an 
emmently^suitable  match,  Miss  Jocyln  thought,  bnly  it  jvas 


% 


/»3t.  i  <''   t,- 


r  '" 


st.^'if)î 


*.      ■£• 


M*- 


ON  THE  WEDDING  Éll£.  *      ,, 

Still  he  was  a  gentleman,  and  with  Ms  talents,  no  doJS 
woj^d  become  an  eminent  artist  ;  and  it  would  be  hSSî 

Tf    T.  '"^  ''"  ^"y  ^  ^^'  ^a^<^  Sections  on  sS 
body  and  ^us  be  doubly  out  of  her  (Miss  Jocyln^)  way 

The  weddmgpreparations  were  going  brisWy  fiSd. 
ri^^radv^r^  T'^''  ^"  ""^  ^"^^^  for  the  mat 
her  dechnmg  health.  The  hurry  to  hâve  the  ceremonv 
irrevocably  over  had  grown  to  be  something  ver^T^e 
monomania  with  her.  *      ^       ® 

ish'iLtnf  ^'  7  ?^'  "^  numbered,"  she  said,  with  îever- 
.sh  impatience,  to  her  son,  «  and  I  cannot  resti  my  grave 
Rupert,  until  I  see  Aileen  your  wile.»  «ygrave, 

So  Sir  Rupert,  more  than  anxipus  to  pl^ase  his  mother  * 
ha^enedonthewedding.    An  e Wnt  physicia^  slmon! 

fiH.n?  n  ^'  f    o"^'  ^y  *  **''^^^'"  *^'^«  gentleman  sàîd,  go^ 
fiden^ally,  to  Sir  Rupert;  "the  slightest éxcitement m^ 
snap  it  at  any  moment.    Pon't  contradicf  her^let  eve^ 
thing  be  as  she  wishes.     Nothing  cah  save  her    b^    - 
perfect  qu  et  and  repose  may  prolon|  her  exislce!^'  '" \ 
The  last  week  of  September  the  Weddîng  was  to  tie* 
place  ;  and  ail  was  bustle  .nd  hast^  at  Jocyfn  Hal^  ^ 

of  Lady  Jhetford  herself.    She  had  seen  him  but  very  . 

leen^heT'  ^^^^^^^^^^  "ï-<^-  »»ad  compelled  her  S 
keep  herroom;  but  her  interest  in  hin,  was  unabâteA 
and  she  had  sent  for  him  to  her  apartm^nt,  aïTd  mvi^ 

a  litde  flattered,  consented  at  once.     '  \ 

"  Very  kind  of  Lady  Thetford,  you  know,  Miss  Evemd^*' 


'^ 


^» 


• 


i  Vv%w  i-  ^  'l'.ii.'ii  ,jii^\a.-K.^Bf,*.'i o' W.i','  'fft  'V-   _  ^  j.'Ji-C^r  \'^^.  Itt^L 


/îastf  '■; 


ly 


:VT 


342 


S/H  NOELS  HEIR. 


ti* 


Mr.  Legard  said,  sauntering  into  the  room  where  she  sat 
with  her  ex-governesà— Mr.  Legard  and  Miss  Everard 
weregrowing  highly  confidential  of  late— «  to  take  such  an 
interett  in  an  utter  sfrangér  as  she  does  in  me;" 

May  stole,  a  glance  from  under  heç  eyelashès  at  Mrs. 
Weymore  ;  that  lady  sat  nervous  and*  àcared-loçking,  and 
^lUtogether  uncomfortable,  as  she  had  a  habit  of  doing  in 
the  young  artist*s  présence. 

'*Very,"  Miss  Everard  said,  dryîy.     " Ybu  ought  to  feel 
highly  complimented,  Mr.  Legard,  ft5r  it's  a  s<^  of  kind- 
ness  her  ladyship  is  extremely  chary  of  to  utter  strangers 
iRatherodd,isn'tit,  Mrs.  Weymore?"  \ 

Mrs.  Weymore's  reply  was  a  distressed,  beseechèng  look 
^Mr.  Legard  saw  it,  andopened  very  wide  his  handsome. 
Saxon  eyes. 

"  Eh  ?  "  he  said,  "  it  doesn't  mean  anything  does  it  ?  Mrs 
Weymore  looks  mysterious,  and  l'm  so  stupid  aÊout  thèse 
thmgs.     Lady  Thetford  doesn't  know  anything  aboià  me 
does  she  ?  "  °       ,    ;       ' 

«  Not  that  I  know  of,"  May  Said,  with  significant  em- 
phasis  on  the  Personal  pronoun. 

.''Then  Mrs.  Weymore  does  I  By  Jovel  I  always 
thought  Mrs.  Weymore  had  an  odd  way  of  looWng  at  me  I 
And  now,  what  is  it  ?  " 

He  tumed  his  fair,  resolute  face  to  that  lady  with  k 
smile  hard  to  resist. 

"  I  don*t  make  much  of  a  howling  about  my  affairs,  you 
"know,  Mrs  Weymore,"  he  said;  "but,  for  ail  that,  I  ani 
.  none  the  less  interested  in  myself  and  history.  If  you  can 
open  the  mysteries  a  little  you  wiU  be  conferring  a  favori 
on  me  I  can  never  repay.  And  I  am  positive  fcom  yoaii 
lookâ  you  can."  ' 

— " — ^ —  .  .  -        .  ^„  v- 


«. 


b^^      Ti  ^JAftsA  ,   i    1  .  •# 


•^A^J    <J. 


ON  THE   WEDDING  EVE.  3., 

Mrs  Weymore  turned  away,  and  covered  her  face,  with 
a  sort  of  sob.  The  young  lady  and  gentleman  exchanged 
^tartled  glances.  *s  « 

"  You  can  ihen"?  "  Mr.  Legard  saidi  gravely,  butgrowing 
very  pale.    «  You  fcnow  who  I  am  ?  »  ^ 

To  his  boundless  consternation.  Mrs.  Weymore  rose  up. 
seizing  his  hands  and  covering  them  with  kisses. 

w  ^  ^fJ.  '  ^"ll  ^  ^"°''  ^^"^  ^"""^  ^'■®'  a«<i  so  shaU  you 
before  this  weddmg  takes  place.  But  before  I  tell  vou  I 
must  speak  to  Lady  Thetford." 

^r.Legard  withdrew  his  hands, his  face  as  colorless  as 
herown. 

«ToLadyThetfordl  Whathas  Lady  Thetford'to  do 
witn  me?  "         ^ 

'   «  Everything  I    She  knows  who  you  are  as  well  as  I  do 
I  must  speak  to  her  first." 

•|  Answer  me  ohe  thing— is  my  name  Vyking ?" 
No.      Pray,  pray  don't  ask  me  any  more  questions. 
Assoon  as  her  ladyship  is  a  little  stronger,  I  wiU  go  to 
her  an(^  obtairt  her  pennission  to  speak.    Keep  what  I 
hâve  said  a  secret  from  Sir  Rupert,  and  wait  untU  then.» 

bhe  turned  to  go,  so  haggai^d  and  wild-looking,   thàt 

blankly  after  her  as  she  left  the  room. 

shalfi^iS.'!»^^'^"^  ^'^^^  *  deep  breath,  "at  lastl 

,    There  was  a  pause  ;  then  May  spoke  in  a  fluttering  lit- 
itle  voice.  * 

^  "How  very  strange  that  Mrs.  Minore  shoald  know, 
of  ail  persons  in  the  world  I  "  ^ 

tI^°  n  **•'^^^3^°••«  ?    Ho^long has  she  been hère 
^"  y°"  ^^^  ^^^'^^f  Miss  Everard." 


■y-% 
■■^1 


É.dte^i>»^iy^L^<- 


Jfe4«,  ^  1^  VdJÉ*  $  k.^g      .'V^ 


jf-^-^,-      \t    „  fr  t^  t  i  \tf\Pff^i^'^^!^m^^^^^^^^ 


i 


344 


S/H  NOEDS  HEIR. 


And  that  'ail  '  wiU  be  almost  nQthing  ^She  came  dowD 
from  London  as  nursery-govemess  to  B.upert  and  me  a 
week  or  two  after  my  arrivai  hère,  selected  by  the  recto* 
of  St  Gosport.  She  wa§^en  what  you  seé  her  now  a 
pâle,  subdued  créature  in  widow  weeds,  with  the  look'of 
one  who  had  seen  troublé.  I  ha#  known  her  so  long 
and  always  as  such  a  white,  sfll  shadow,  I  suppose  thatis 
why  it  seems  sa  odd." 

Mrs^  Weymore  kept  altogether  out  of  Mr.  Legard's  way 
for  the  next  week  or  two.  She  avoided  May  also,  as  much 
as  possible,  and  shrunl^  so  palpably  from  any  allusion  to 
the  past  scène,  that  May  good-naturedly  bided  her  time  in 
silence,  though  almost  as  impatient  as  Mr.  Legard  him- 
self. 

And  whilst  th^y  waited  the  bridal-eve  came  round,  and 
Lady  Thetford  was  much  better,.  not  able  to  quit  her 
room,  but  strong  enough  to  lie  on  a  sofa  and  talk  to  her 
son  and  Colonel  Jocyln,  wlth  a  flush  on  her  cheek,  and  a 
sparkle  in  her  eye — ail  unusi^  there. 

The  marnage  was  to  tal^lace  in  the  village  church, 
and  there  was  to  fbUow  à  grand  cérémonial  wedding- 
breakfast  ;  and  then  the  hai)py  p^  weré  to  start  ât  once 
on  their  blissful  bridal-tour. 

"  And  I  hope  to  see  my  boy  return,'^  Lady  Thetford  said, 
kissmg  him  fondly.  «I  can  hardly  ask  for  more  than 
that" 

Late  in  the  aftemoon  of  that  eventful  wedding-eve,  the 
ex-govemess  sought  out  Guy  Legard,  for  the  first  time  of 
her  own  accord.  She  found  him  in  the  young  baronet's 
studio,  with  May,  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  that 
young  lady's  portrait  He  started  up  at  sight  of  his  vi». 
itor,  vividly  interested.    Mrs.  Weymore  was  paler  even 


/■  ■ 


i'A/jt 


'Jf. 


«  .^- 1...  Il 


•     'f. 


i3:^is.f*'dà,i^''^'J^>H^ .  t  -».â<i^^iliSix\a;-J^^d 


~li 


•'   1" 


■A 


àj\r  THE  WEDDING  EVE. 


H5 

on  ner  face  no  one  had  ever  seen  there  before. 
ï  ou  hâve  corne  to  keep  your  nromi.!*»  »  fi,« 
cred-«  to  teU  me  who  |  am  r  '         ^°""^  "f^ 

know-       ^       ^  ^"^^'^  y^"  ^^^^P  to-nightj(rou.  sljàU 
J^  I  wonder  ho„  long  you  must  waitî  »  said  Mayi  E«ir-  " 


^1 


■-fjir 


\ 


•^1 


iS^  ^S"'  iu*       ^vW  '-naît.     ?  t.^1."??  „        '     ,  ' 


new. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MRS.    WEYMORÇ'S   STORY.  ' 

|ADY  THETFOàD  sat  up  among  her  pillows 
and  looked  ^t  her  hired  dépendent  with  wide 
open  eyes  of  astonishment.  The  pale,  timid 
face  of  Mrs.     Weymore  wore  a  look  altogether 

"  Listen  to  your  stoty  !     My  dear  Mrs.  Weymore,  what 
possible  iiiterest  can  your  story  hâve  for  me  ?  " 

stronger   to-day  than  usu^l,  and  Sir  Rupert's  marriage  is 
so  very  near,  that  I  must  speak  now  or  never  " 

"Sir/Rupert,"  my  lady  said.     "What  has  your  story 
to  do  with  Sir  Rupert  ?  "  ^ 

^^  "  You  will  hear,"  Mrs.  Weymore  said,  veiy  sadly. 
Heaven  knows  I  should  hâve  told  you  long  ago  :  butit 
IS  a  story  few  would  care  to  tell.  A  cruel  and  shameful 
story  of  wrong  and  misery  ;  for,  my  lady,  I  hâve  been 
cruelly  wronged  by  one  who  was  once  very  near  to  you  " 
L  idy  Thetford  tumed  ashen  white. 

**  l^ery  near  to  me  1    do  you  mean " 

"  ^y  lady  listen,  and  you  shall  hear.   Ail  those  years  thaï 

I  ha*e  been  with  you,  I  hâve  not  been  what  I  seemed    My 

name  rs  not  Weymore.    My  name  is  Thetford— as  yours  is  " 

A  quick  terror  had  settled  down  on  my  lady's  face     Hei 


.Mi 


,Jf 


fit^âitit-  'fc.      i 


4 


_x_ 


MRS.  fVEVAfORE's  sjro/gy. 

347 

*ent  on  to  say,  «  but,  long  before,  I  had  knpwn  that^om 
widowhood  désertion.  I  ran  away  from  my  happy  home 
from  the  kmdest  father  and  mother  that  ever  lived  ;  I  ran 
ycTioTd  ""^  "'"^'^^^  deserted  before  I  was  eighteen 
"  He  came  to  our  village,  a  remote  place,  my  lady  with 
He'clf  :S"''  '"  ^îf  trout-streams,  a'nd  for  notLi^'e"^ 
He  came,  the  man  whom  I  married,  on  a  visit  to  the  great 

^T^l  T  ""'"""'  T^^^'^  nottheremotest  conneLn 
wu  T  .  JT'  ^^  ^  "'^S*^*  ^^^^  ^°°^  his  real  name. 
.dï'«nH  T        ''''  ^^™'  it  ^as  as  Mr.  NoeUhe  told  me  him- 

and  confidmg  as  jt  is  possible  for  the  simplest  vill4e 
girl  to  be,  and  ail  the  handsome  stranger  told  me  yL   ' 
gospel  truth  ;  and  my  life  only  began,  I  thought,  from  the    ' 
hour  I  saw  him  first.     .  &  i  tue 

"  I  met  him  at  the  trout-streams  fishing,  and  alone.  I 
had  corne  to  while  away  the  long,  lazy  hours  under  the  trees 
He  spôke  to^me-the  handsome  stranger,  whom  I  had 
seen  nding  through  th^  village,  beside  the  squire,  like  a 
young  pnnce  ;  and  I  was  only  too  pleased  and  flattered  by 
his  noùœ,  It  is  many  years  ago,  Lady  Thetford.  and  Mr. 
Noël  took  a  f ancy  to  my  pink-and-white  face  and  f air  curls.  as 
fine  gentlemen  will.  It  was  only  fancy-ncver  at  its  I^st, 
love;  or  he  would  nothave  deserted  me  pitilessly  as  he 
did.  Iknow  itnow;  but  thefa  took  the  tinsel  for  the 
pure  gol^  and  would  as  soon  hâve  doubted  the  Scriptiire 
■s  his  hghtest  word.  ^ 

"  My  làdy,  it  is  a  very  old  story.  and  very  nft^n  t^]^ 


\, 


îjfeL'ii^  ..î*. 


tfs'«. 


-ifyf,'Y^jgf^ 


\ 


348 


^ 


SIJi  NOEVS  HÈIR. 


^  We  met  by  stealihfand  in  secret  ;  and  weeks  passed,  and 
I  never  learï^d  '^  was  other  than  what  I  knew  him. 
I  loved  with  x^  whole  foolish  trusting  heart,  strongly  and 
selfishly  ;'  and  I  was  ready  to  give  up  home,  and  frienda 
and  parents— ail  the  world  for  him.  But  not  my  good 
naïae,  and  he  knew  that  ;  and  my  làdy,  we  were  married 
really  and  truly,  and  hoiiestly  married  in  a  little  church 
in  Berkshire,  and  the  marriage  is  tecorded  in  the  register 
in  Ihe  chufch,  and  I  hâve  the  marriage  certificate  hère  in 
^       my  possession." 

Mrs.  TVeymore  touch^ed  her  bosom  as  she  spoke,  and 
looked  with  eamest,  truthful  eyes  at  Lady  Thetford.  But 
Lady  Thetford's  face  was  averted,  and  not  to  be  seeri. 

"  His  fancy  for  me  was  as  fleeting  as  ail  his  fancies  j 
but  it  was  strong  ehough  and  reckless  enough,  whilst  it 
lasted,  to  make  him  forget  ail  conséquences.  For  it  was 
surely  a  reckless  act  for  a  gentleman,  such  as  I^d  was,  to 
marry  the  daughter  of  a  village  schoolmaster.  /,  V 

"  There  was  but  one  witness  toour  marriage^^èhus- 
band's  servant—George  Vyking.  I  never  l^f  ,»éftiian  ; 
he  was  crafty,  and  cunning,  and  treachero»i^ljS^4e^dy 
for  any  deed  of  evil  ;  but  he  was  in  his  master'^S^»^ 
and  took  a  house  for  us  at  Windsor,  and  lived  witifei . 
and  kept  his  master's  secrets  well.  '      .^^ ..  ^ 

Mrç.  Weymore  paused,  her  hands  fluttering  in  painful 
imrest  The  averted  face  of  Lady  Thetford  never  tiSned, 
but  a  smothered  voice  bade  her  go  on. 

**  A  year  passed,  my  lady,  and  I  still  lived  in  the  house 
at  Windsor,  but  quite  alone  now.  My  punishment  had 
begun  very  early  j  two  or  three  months  sufficed  to  weary 
my  husband  of  his  childish  village  giri,  and  make  him 
thoroughly  repent  his  folly.     I  saw  it  from  the  first— he 


j'-T^i  A  \~'^ 


fe*w-4â^^-'j 


-         \ 

MHS.  H^EYjtfOEErs^Toity: 

never  trie<f  to  hide  itfrom  me;  his  absences  «rew  XonZ 
and  longer,  more  and  more  fréquent,  until  at  laft  hrceïed 

vStlTme";^  ^^^"^'^-^«^^-eand  wt"^^^^ 
n^t  told  me  the  truth-the  hard,  cruel,  bitter  ^th. 
»\7!1^T'^''  fee  my  husband  ipore.  ^ 

sÇad  young  man's  life,* 

^;'s  repented  of  it,  as  I, 

'  iver  see  him  again, 

him,  either.    When 

imn's  partridges,  then 


"'Itwas  themaddest 
Vyking  sald  to  me,  cooU 
knew  he  would  repent'' 
mistress,  and  you  needn'.  , 
you  find  last  winter'ssndw' 
you  may  hope  to  find  him> 

"•But  I  am  his  wife,'  I  said;  'nothing  can  undo  that 
— hislawful,wedde<fwife.'  '         «^  «nao  tûat 

t  Jial'oi  'f  ^^'''"^:.  'f  ^'^'  ^^''  ^"°"g^  >  but  there's 
«W  law  of  divorce,  and  therè's  no  witness  but  me  alive 
You  can  do  your  best  •  anH  th«  k»  *    "  "  * 

4.  1    '.  •'""f  °^^^i  and  the  best  you  can  do  is  tn 

t^^^^^^^J^""  provide  Jyou  i,andtmei;; 

"Ihadgrown  to  ritpect  some  such  révélation  Ihad 
been  neglected  so  long.  My  lady,  I  don't  sneTof  .^ 
feehng^  my  angufah  and  shaie,  an'^  ren.o™  ^^2"^ 
-I  only  tell  you  hère  simple  (acts.*^But  in  WÊ^k 

w:LTrrtfri^,^i-''-^ri 

*e  hope  that  l  would  one  day  JnseM  tô  mar^  M^^ 

my  betrayer,  but  alway,  to  be  met  and  foUed.  I  hâve 
gone  down  *n  my  knees  to  that  man  Vyldn»  but  I  mSL 
as  weU  hâve  kneitto  a  statue  ofstone         ■*"•""»«" 


ÏM-J 


350 


SIR  NOËL  S  HEIR. 


-m. 


^*'* 


"*I'll  tell  you  what  we'U  do,'  he  said,  'we'U  go  to 
London.  People  are  beginning  to  look  and  talk  about 
hère  j  there  they  know  how  to  mind  their  own  business.' 
*  "  I  consented  readily  enough.  My  one  hope  now  was 
to  find  the  man  who  had  wronged  me,  and  in  London  I 
thought  I  stood  a  better  chance  than  at  Windsor.  We 
started,  Yyking  and  i  \  but  driving  to  the  station  we  met 
with  an  accident,  our  horse  ran  away  and  I  was  thrown 
cutj  after  that  I  hardly  remember  anything  for  a  long 
time.  ^   •  V 

"Weeks  passed  beîore  I  recoRrered.  Then  îwas  told 
ihy  baby  had  been  bom  and  died.  I  listened  ^n  a  sort  of 
duU  apathy  ;  I  had  suffered  so  *  much  that  the  sensé  of 
suffering  was  dulled  and  blunted.  I  knew  Vyking  well 
enough  not  to  trust  him  or  believe  him  ;  but  I  was  power- 
less  to  act,  and  coùld  only  turn  my  face  to  the  wall  and 
praytodie. 

"  But  I  grew  strong,  and  Vyking  took  me  to  London, 
and  left  me  in  respectably-furnished  lodgings.  I  might 
hâve  escaped  easily  enough  hère,  but  the  energy  even  to 
wish  for  freedom  was  gone  ;  I  sat  ail  day  long  in  a  state  of 
misérable,  listless  lajiguor,  heart-weary,  heart-siçk,  worn-out. 

"  One  day  Vyking  |^me  tô  my  rooms  in  a  furious  state 
of  passion.  Hé  and  his  master  had  quarreîled.  I  never 
knew  about  whàff  and  Vyking  had  been  içnominiously 
dismissed.  The  valet  tore  up  ahd  down  my  little  parlor 
m  a  towering  passion. 

"  *  ||l  make  Sir  Noël  pay  for  it,  or  my  name's  not  Yyking,' 
he  cried.  *  He  thinks  because  he's  married  an  heiress 
be  caa  defy  me  now.  But  there's  law  in  this  land  to 
punisn  bigamy;  and  l'il  hâve  him  up  for  bigamy  the 
moment  he'i|})|back  from  his  wedding-tour.'»  f    » 

^ -7~^. -^ 


■é 


MRS.   WErMOREPS  STORY.  3^, 

«I  turned,  and  looked  at  him,  but  veiy  quietly.    ^Sir 

Noël  ?    I  said.     '  Do  you  mean  my  husband  ?  ' 

^   '"I  mean  Miss  Vandeleur's  husband  now,'  saig  Vykiuff 

K.«  ^  never  see  him  again,  my  girh     Yes,  he'Tsir  Noe 

rhetford,  of  Thetford  Towers,  Devonshire;  and  you  can 

go^d  call  on  his  pfetty  new  wife  as  soon  as  she  comea 

"I  turned  atway  and  looked  out  of  the  window  without 
a  Word.     Vyking  looked  at  me  curiously. 

"'Oh  1  we've  got  over  it,  hâve  we;  and  we're  going  to 
take  it  easy,  and  not  make  a  scène.    Now  that's  what  I 
call  sqnsible.    And  you'll  come  forwafd  and  swear  Sir 
Noelguiltyof.bigamy?'.         , 
I      "  *  No,'  I  said,  *  I  never  will  V 
^  Ji*  You  won't— and  why  not?  ' 

"  /f  7^  ^^à  why.     r  dpn't  think  you  would  under- 
stand  1^  told  you— only  I  won't.' 
"  '  Couldn't  you  be  coaUted  ?  ' 
"  *  No.' 

'"Don't  be  too  sure.  Perhaps  I  could  tell  you  some- 
thmg  might  move  you,  quiet  as  you  are.  What  if  I  told 
you  your  baby  did  not  die  that  time,  but  wàs  alive  and 

-   "I  knew  a  scène  was  worse  than  useless  with  this  man 
tears  and  entreaties  thrown  away.     I  heard  his  last  words! 
and  started  to  my  feet  with  outstretched  hands 

"'Vykmg.  for  the  dear  Lord's  sake,  hâve  pity  on  a 
desolate  woman,  and  tell  mè  the  Vuth  * 

wJ^'^T*^"'"?  ^""^  *^'  truth.  Vour  boy  is  alive  and 
well,  and  I  ve  chnstened  him  Guy-Guy  Vyking.  Don't 
you  be  scared-he's  ail  safe  ;  and  the  day  you  fppear  în 
court  agamst  Sir  Nod,  that  day  he  .^.JL  .  JL^'  fn 


--•**.  î*»- 


r^ 


.^Mr 


^m"" 


352 


S/H  NOEVS  HEIR. 


«i> 


''  %*' 


you.    Now  don't  you  go  and  get  excited  ;  think  it  o\er, 
and  let  nïe  know  yoùi  decisien  when  I  come  back.' 

"He.left  the  room  beforelcould  answer,  and  I  neVer 
saw,  Vyking  again.  The  next  day,  reading  the  raoming 
paper,  I  saw  the  arrest  o£  a  pair  of  housebreakers,  and  the 
name  of  the  chief  was  George  Vyking,  late  valet  to  Sir 
Noël  Thètford.  I  triedto  getto  see  him  in  prison,  but 
failed.  His  trial  came  on,  his  sentence  was  transportatioa 
for  ten  years  ;  and  Vyking  fef t  England,  canying  my  secret 
with  him.    •  ' 

"I  had  something  left  to  live  for  now— the  thoughtof 
my  child.  But  where  was  I  to  find  him,  where  to  look  ? 
I,  who  had  not  f.  penny  in  the  wide  wotld.  If  I  had  had 
the  meâns,  I  would  haye  come  to  Dcvonshice  to  seek  out 
the  man  who  had  so  basely  wronged  me  ;  but  as  I  was,  I 
could  as  soon  hâve  gone  to  the  antipodes.  Oh  1  it  was  a 
bitter,  bitter  time,  that  long,  hard  stmggle  with  starvatiôn 
— a  time  it  chills  my  blood  even  now  to  look  back  upon. 

"  I  was  still  in  London,  battling  with  grim  poverty,  Vhen, 
six  months  later,  I  read  in  the  Tïmes  the  awfully  Sudden 
death  of  Sir  Noël  Thètford,  Baronet. 

"  My  lady,  I  am  not  speaking  of  the  eflFect  of  that  blow 

—I  dare  not  to  you,  as  deeply  wronged  as  myself.    You 

were  with  him  in  his  dying  monients,  and  surely  he  told 

you  the  trrtÊh  then  ;  surely  he  acknowledged  the  great 

\  wrong  he  had  done  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Weymore  paused,  and  La^y  Thètford  tumed  hei 
face,  her  gJiastly,  white  face,  for.  the  first  time,  to  answer. 

"  He  did — ^he  told  me  ail  ;  I-  khow  your  story  to  be 
true."  ijk 

■"ThankGod!  Oh,thank  Gk)d  I  And  he  acknowledged 
his  first  marriage?  " 


V. 


\*K' 


■S&iiithâ^:.  f 


*«• 


MRS.  WEYMORE'S  STORY. 

"Yes;  the  wrong  he  did  you  was  ven'ial  to  tha^which 
he  did  me~I,  who  never  was  his  .wife.  never  for  oTe  poor 
moment  had  a  right  to  ^  name."  ^ 

Mrs.  Weymore  sunk  down  on  her  knees  by  tlie  coucb 
and  passionately  kissed  tHfe  lady's  hand. 

"Myladyl  my  ladyl  And  yott  will  forgive  me  iox 
coming  hère?  I  did  not  know,  when  fc  answered  Mr. 
Kmghts  advertisement,  whère  I  was  coming;  and  when 
Ididrcould  notresist  the  temptation  of  looking on  his 
son.  Oh,  my  ladyl  yi9u*will  forgive^e,  and  bear  witness 
to  the  truth  of  my  story." 

"I  wiU  j  1  always  me^iit  to  before  I  died.  And  that 
young  man-that  Guy  U^,^-yo^x  know  he  is   your 

"I  knewit  from  the  first.     My  lady,  you  will  let  me  ' 
tell  bim  at  once,  will  you  not  ?'  And  Sir  Rupert?  Oh  mv 
lady!  heought  to  know."  ' 

Lady  Thetford  covered  her  face  with  a  groan  "I 
promised  his  father  on  his  death-bed  to  telthim  long  ago 
to  seek  for  his  rightful  heir— and  s«e  how  I  hâve  kept  my 
Word.  But  I  could  not-Icould not  !  It  )«as  not' in human 
nature— not  in  such  a  nature  as  mine,  wifenged  as  I  hâve 
been." 

"  But  now— oh;  my  deçr  lady  f  now  you  wiJI  ?  '* 
"  Yes,  now,  on  the  verge  of  the  grave,  I  may  surely  speak. 
I  dare  not  die  with  my  promise  unkept.  This vervnight  '' 
Lady  Thetford  cried,  sitting  up,  flushed  andi^xcited  «  m'y 
boy  shall  know  ail— he  shall  not  marry  in  ignorance  of 
wlwm  he  really  is.  Aileen  has  the  fortune  of  a  princess  • 
aniTAileen  will  not  love  him  lessfor  the  title  hemust  lose' 
When  he  cornes  home,  Mrs.  Weymore,  send  him  to  me* 
and  send  your  son  with  him,  and  I  will  tell  them  aïl  " 


( 


^ 


,,.,;,»» 


f      ■  . 

CHAPTER  XHl 

"  THERE   IS  MANY  A  SLIP.'* 

ROOM  that  was  like  a  picture— a  ^arpet  ol 
fose-buds  gleamiiig  through  rich-greeir  hioss, 
loungeà  pUed  with  dqwny-silk  piUows,  a  bed 
curtained  in   lace,  foamy  white,  plump,  and 
■  temptmg,   fluted   panels,    and    delicious  little  medallion 
pi9tures    of    celebrated    beauties    smiling    down    from 
thfe    pink-tinted    back-ground;    a    pretty   room— Aileen 
Joc>In's  chambre-a-coucher,  and  looking  like  a  picture  her- 
self,  in  a  loose,  flowing  morning-robe,  ail  ungirdled,  the 
nch,  dark  hair  falling  heavy  and  unbound  te  her  waist 
Aileen  Jocyln  lay  amongpiles  of  cushions,  like  some  youns 
Eastem  Sultana.  '       ^ 

Lay  and  mused  with,  ohi  such  an  infinitely  happy  smile 
upon  her  exquisite  face;  mused, '^  happy  youth;  loving 
and  beloved,  upon  its  bridal-eve  does  muse.  Nay  on 
her  bridal-day,  for  the  dainty  little  French  clock  on' the 
bracket,  was  pointing  its  golden  hands  to  three. 

The  house  was  very  still  ;  ail  had  retired  late,  busy  with 
préparations  for  the  morrow,  and  Miss  Jocyln  had  just 
dismissed  her  maid.  Every  one,  probably,  butherself,  was 
asleep  ;  and  she,  in  her  unutterable  bliss,  was  too  happy 
for  slumber.  She  arose,  presently,  walked  to  the  window 
and  looked  out.    The  late-setting  moon  stiU  swung  io 


'4. 


A-.-.\ 


#-■ 


,^y<_^w    , 


't 


-    •'  THERE  IS  MANY  A  SUPP 


\. 


\ 


Aesky;  the  stars  still  spanglçd  the  cloudless  blue  and 
.  shone  serene  on  the  purple  bosom  of  the  farCeadlno 

shone-hef  happy  weddtng-day.     The  girl  slid  down  on 

^th'^"'?'  "lur""^'  '^"^P^'  ^«^  ^^<^i^«^  face,  g^rifiel 
w  h  loyè  and  bliss,  turned  ecstatically,  as  some  fahhf  J^ 
^onower  of  the  Prophet  n,ight,  to  ^that^ising^V^r^ 

-  HJn^^'".u"^^"  thought,  gazing  around  over  the  dark 
deep  sea,the  star-gemmed  sky,  and  the  green  T^diance' 
and  sweetness  of  the  earth  "«k.^  u  !  ,  raaiance 
world  it  is  and  Ttl^l       ■  ^'  *  beautiful,  blissful 

woria  ic  is,  and  I  the  happiest  créature  in  it  I  " 

She  retumed  to  her  cushions,  and  fell  asleen  •  sieni 
a^ddrea^ed  dreams  as  joyful  as  h.r  wakSg  t^;,ghTs' 

hTack'^lherwl*'^^   ^^^^^""^  ^^-d   tfat  w^o 
blacken  adl  her  world  so  soon,  fell  upon  her. 

Houre  passed,  and  still  Aileen  slept.  '  Then  came  an 
imperative  Tcnock  at  her  doorl-a^ain  anH  o     •  T  / 
eachtime;  and  then  AileenWfu;,  f^  S '"^^^^ 
room  was  flooded  with  sunshine,  cou'^tless'birl  sang 
the  swaying  green  gloom  of  the  branches,  and  the  ceS 
sea  was  a»  aglitter  ^ith  s^ltling  sunlight.  ^' 

"Corne  In  •'  Miss^ocyln  said.  It  was  her  maid  she 
thought-and  she  walked  over  té' an  arm-chair  Id^^ 
posedly  sat  down.  ^      -*^»air,  ana  c^ 

The  door  opened,  and  Colonel  jocyln.  not  F^^on 
;;ppeared,  an  open  note  in  his  hi^his7LT5 

;;  Papa  I  "  Aileen  cried,  starting  up  ia  alamu 
Jleadlr''"^  daughter-very  bad,  very  sorr.,wful, 
The  note  ^as  veiy  >neX  in  a  apideiy.  femalc  liaud. 


\- 


i,A^.i  !''_,.  V, 


■X 


•u, 


€f 


356    :     P     ■    )^S//;!JVO£MS. 

p  "  ^^'^/^l*^"'^  are  î^^lftèat  troubla 

moming,m  o^e  W^éiose  <irè#ul,^pg^n)^    #e    -~  ^"« 

nearl||;  distractéâ^  li^Bert  béa#^^ 

I^  c%i^er  as  sooff^as  you^n.  J  i^  ■■*^iJ^^|lL-"# 


•ft* 


;^v« 


mk  back  in  her  seat,  pale  and  trem 

'         ^'  '        %'^'^- 

.    w.„-^^apa.!  papal"-  ^    1|„     ■ 

'^l^^"'f  ^^'^  ^^*^'  ""^  '^^^''  and.very  sho#ing  ;  and  terri- 

^^  %  u#:.rtunate  that  it  shoulçi  Iiave  occ^d  just  at  this 

...  tune.  .  A  postponed  wedding  is  ever  ominc^s  of  evil." 

4  .  "^**^^''^y«  papa,  don't  think  of  that.    i^n't  think  of 

fâel    Pôor  Lady  Thetford I     Poor  RupertI*^Vbu  willgo 

ôver  at  once,  papa,  will  you  not ?" 

«Certainly,  mydear..  And  I  will  tell  the^  servants,  so 
that  when  our'guests  arrive,  you  may  not  bedisfurbed  ' 
bmçe  it  wâs  to  be,"^  muttered  the  Indian  officer  under  his 
mustache,.«Iwoul(rgivehàlf  my  fortune  thatit  had  been 
one  day  Uter.  A  postponed  marriage  is  the  most  ominous 
thing  under  the  Sun." 

.  He  left  the  room,  and  Aileen  sat  with  her  haiids  clasped 
and  an  unutterablé  awè  overpowering  evfezy  other  feeling! 
Sheforgot  her  own  disappojintment  inthe  awful  mystery  of 
suddendeath.    Her  share  of  the  trial  was  light— a  year  of 
waiting,  mbre  or  less;  what  did  it  matter^^ce  Rupert 
loved  her  unçhangeably  ;  but,  poor  Lady  |flfo-d,  called  > 
away  m  one  instant  from  earth„  and  ail  shéjHKost-  dear 
on  her  soi^*^edding-day.    And  thm^mmZ^^.uJ 
the  dead  womatn  had^HKer,  and  ho^i 
welc^med  her  as  a  dpSE^covered  her 


ing  how 
fon^y  sh( 


^ 


•-4'.. 


)• .» 


"  THERE  ISMANV  A  SLIP.» 


357 


face  with  hftr  hands,  W  wept  as  she  might  hâve  wept  fo. 
Jier  own  mother.  *  ^ 

^  «  là  T^'  ^""^t  ^  "''''^''■''  ^°^"  ^^  ^^'■^'"  Aileen  thoughi  ; 
-    and  I  was  doubly  happy  in  knowing  I  was  to  hâve  one  al 

last.    And  now— and  now " 

Mms  a  drearily  long  morning  to  the  poor  bride  elect, 
sittmgalone^i  her  chamher,  or  pacing  restlessly  up  and 
down  She  heard  the  roll  of  carnages  up  the  drive,  thé  • 
pause  that  ensued,  and  theh  their  departure.  ^  She  won- 
deréd  how  he  bore  it  ;  best  of  ail,  May  had  said  ;  but  then 
he  was  ever  still,  and  strong,  and  self-rest^ained.  She 
knewhowdear  that  poor,  ailing  mother  had  e^ver  been  to 
ûim,  and  she  knew  how  bitterly  he  wduld  f eel  her  loss 

They  talk  of  pres^ntiments,"  i^^ed  Miss  Jocyln,  walk- 
mg  weanly  to  and  fro  ;  "  and  see  how  happy  and  hopeful 
I  was  i^is  morning,  while  sKe  lay  dead  and  he  moumed. 
If  1  only  dared  go  fo  him— my  own  Rupert."      . 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  Col.  Jocyln  retumed. 
He  strode  straight  to  his  daughter's  présence,  wearing  a  . 
Çale,  fagged  fi«u:e.'^>  *•  ^ 

'••Well,  papa?"  she  asked,faintly. 

"Mypale  Aileen!"  he  said,  Icissing  her  fondly,  «my 
poor,  patent  girl.  I  am  sony  you  must  undergO  this 
tnal,  and,    knitting  his  brows,  «such  talk  as  it  will  make  " 

^l^Jlf^^l't  °^  "k^P^-"'^  ^^^'^  is  surely  the 

^^^^^^^' S^^^'^^^^^y  faltering. 

fon^'^f^*  somethingMd^flàput  Rupert;  he. was  very 

Qt^^   ^^T\?rf  ^  ^'  ''^"^ '^^  "  Sreat  deal  too  . 
qmetl^^.     He  loo\#  hke  a  «an  sl^ly  tuming  to,^tpnî,    . 
with    a    face  ^hi(^  and*  âtem,  and   inèfuteble,    and 
he    never  asked  for  you.      He    sat    theî»  with  folded 
arms,  and  that  petrified  face.  Ê^ûr^  on^ris  rfp.H,  1,^^].^. 


jf 


#■ 


^V*  •^»'' 


*fc> 


!    . 

s 


;^' 


^ 


358 


SIX  NOEVS  HÈTR. 


^ 


chiUed  my  blood  to  look  at  him.    There's  something  odd 
^a»d  unnatur^l  in^this  frozen  calm.     And,  oh  !  by-the-by  ? 
1  f^rgot  to  te;i  you  the  strangest  thing^May  Everard  it 
was  who  told  me  ;  that  paihter  fellow-what's  his  name--' 
"Legard,  papa?"  | 

"Yes,  Legard.     He  turns  out  to  be  the  son  of  Mrs. 
Weymore-they  discovered  it  lâst  night     He  was  there  in 
theroom  with  the  most  dazed  and  mystified,  and 'alto- 
gether  bewildôred  expression  of  countenance  I  ever  saw  a 
man  wear;  and  May.and  Mr^.  Wéymore  sat  drying  inces- 
santly.     I  couldn't  see  what  occasion  there  was  for  the 
governess  and  the  painter  there  in  that  fôom  of  death-^ 
and  I  said  so  to  Miss  Everard.    There's  something  mysl 
tenons  in  the  matter,  for  her  face  flifehed,  and  she  stam- 
mered  something  about  startling  family  secrets  that  had 
corne  td  light,  the   over-excitement  of  which  had  has- 
tened  Lady  Thetford's  end.     I  don't  like  the  look  of 
things    and  Fm   altogelher  in  t^e  dark.     That,  painter 
^semblés  the  Thetfords  agréât  deal  too  closeffor  the 
mère  w^r^  of  chance;  and  yet,  if  Mrs.  Weymore  is  his 
mother,  I  don»t  see  bow  there  can  be  ^ything  in  that  It's 
odd— confbundedly  oddj  " 

1,  è*^'^°*'y^^'*'"^'^*^°"^*^ewalkedthefloor,hisbrows 

^T    "l'T  '""^^^y  ^°^-    ^'^  ^^"ehter  sW  and  eyed 
nim  wistfully.         ^         '  ,,  . 

«  I^id  no  one  ask  for  me,  papa  ?    Am  I  not  to  go  èver  ?  - 
bir  Rupert  didn't  ask  for  you.     May  Everard  did.  and 

\ZT7%  '"^  ^'ï^  y°"  to-morrow.    Aileen,  thîngs  at 
Thetford  Towers  hâve  a  suspicions  look  to-day  s  I  can't 
see  the  hght  yet,  but  I  suspect  something  ^ong'  ;  It  ghav 
be  the  veiy  best  thing  that  could  possibly  happen.  this^ 
postponed  marriage.    I  shall  make  lir  Rupert  Ema^ 


\ 


L 


; 


''THERE  IS  MANY  A  SLip:^ 


•       ,  •      359 

«S   up  completely  before    my  daughter    becon.es   his 

ThetforH? "'  ^'^^'^'^'^^  to  promise,  took  his  daughter  to 

the  solemn  wonder  of  the  winding-sheet  and  theXave  '' 
There  were  two  watchprQ  in  * kÎ  j    i  ^      ' 

ftehousekeepe.;s  son  i„  the  de«h.hamber  oTudy  Th  , 

..  II    u  rî^     '  I  am  so  sony  for  you  I  » 
"usai    faisingone tremulok  hand 


t 


and  turning  away| 


T,   '"./ 


V 


\. 


>■« 


'*>. 


'% 


.# 


■•■¥vj 


P 


^ 


360^ 

^9he  was  as  deâr  to  me  as 
been.     ï^on't  think  o^ 


S/A  l^OEVS  HElRv 

own  mother  could  liav« 

"Shall  we  not  see'gir  kupett?"    the  colonel  askecl. 
/ 1  shouid  hke  to,  particulafly." 

"ïthii)k  not—unless  you  remain  fop ^ome  hou«s.  He 
fa  completely  worn  out,  poor  fellow." 
1  '^How  cornes  that  young  man  hère,  Misa  Evçfard?" 
"  ^oddmg  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Legard,  who  haJ  with- 
drawn  to  a  remote  corner.  «  He  may  be  a  -very  ipecial 
friend  of  Sir  Rupert,>but  don't  you  think  he  présumes  on  , 
thatfriendship .?  "  \ 

M»ss  Everard's  eyes  fla  Jied  angrily.  ^^ 

"No,  sir.!    I  think  nothing  of  the  sort.     M^egard 

h^îS'^^"^''"     ''  "  '"  R"I-t'l^articular  request 

The  colonel  frowned  again,  and  turned  his  back<  upon 
the  speaker.  -^j,  %,  *^ 

"Aileen,"hesaid,ha%htily,  «alisirRupert  is  not  visi- 
ble, nor.liMjfe.to.^  for  some  timè,  pèrhaps  you  had  better 
not  Imger.-Wo-morrow,  after  thé  funeral,  I  shall  speak  to 
him  very  sériously."  /  '7 

Miss  Jocj^ose.  Shf^ould  ralfer  hâve  lingered 
but  she  saw'  hâf  father's  annèyéd  fftce,  and  obwrtd  hfîn  inf' 
mediately.  She  bpnt  and  ^p^.the  'cold,  yiï^  face, 
awful  with  the  dread  imfestyôf .de^tb:       ^        ''^' ; 

"For  the  last  tim<«  ftfend,  my  mother,"  she  mur- 
Igured,  "  until  we  mee^ll^he^en." 

She  drew  her  veil  ovcTher  face  to  hide  her  fallirig  tears, 
«nd  silently  followed  the  stem  and  displeased  Indian 
office^  down  stairs,  and  out  of  the  house.  She  looked 
back  wistfully  once  aj)  the  gray,  old  ivy-grown  façade; 
i^j^ . , ^ ^ 


% 

■  3r  ■ 


ni- 

r 


«  THEINE  IS  MANy  A  SLIP: 


361 


V.  «y  ineuom,  and  side  by  sid«  with  the  ht^W  ^loj 

-sç  «uurcn.    i^ady  Thetford  slept  with  the  resf  nf  fh« 
name  m  the  stony  vaults  ■  th^  (.;.  u  ■    1      •  ^  ^^ 

face  to  face  with  the  colonel.  ^aylight, 

r.r.'^  f'""^^  interview,"  th'e  colonel  was  repeatin^  •  <«« 

AiiJl  T     r  ^''  ^  "*"'y  ''«en  his  son. 

AUee,  Joc3,l„,  ,0,^^  .j^,     r^stle^,^.,,^^  „^ 

lo  ■ 


if» 


362 


S/H  NOEVS  HEIR. 


lonely,   rooms,  saw  them  aligbt,   and  came  out  to    the 

hall  to  me4ït  her  betrothed.  She  held  out  both  hands  shyly 

and  wistfully,  looking  up,  half  in  fear,  in  that  rigid  death- 

white  face  of  her  lover. 
"Aileenl"      ^  ^ 

He  took  the  hands,  and  held  them  fast  a  moment  ;/then 

dropped  them,  and  tumed  to  the  colonel.  / 

1*  Now,  Colonel  Jocyln."  ^ 

The  colonel  led  the  way  into  the  library.     Sir  Rupert 

paused  a  moment  on  the  tbreshold  to  answer  Aileen's  plead- 

ing  glanée. 

"  Only  for  a  few  moments,  Aileen,"  he  said,  his  eyes 
softening  with  infinité  love  ;  "in  half  an  hour  my  fate  shall 
be  decided.  Let  that  fate  be  what  it  may,  I  shall  be  true 
to  )'ou  whilelife  lasts." 

With  thèse  enigmatical  words,  he  followed  the  colonel 
into  the  library,  and  the  polished  oaken  door  closed  be^ 
tween  him  and  Aileen. 


r. 

* 

S 

► 

f 

l 

i'-'  '                                                                                      1 

,     jg 

\ 

- 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

ï'ARTED. 

ALF  an  hour  had  passed. 

Up  M,4  down  the  long  drawmg-room  Aileen 
wandered  a  mles3ly,  restlessly.  „ed  „T* 

ford,  white  and  cold,  and  set  as  raarble.  "^      ^''" 

My  Godl-thelndian  officer  said,  with  wild~eyes  of 

Heav^nltdY"'- J°"^'"-*'=  simple  m,U,.^Woald  to 

"  That  is  a  misnomer  nbW  -Colon*»l  T/.n^i«     t 
longer  A>  Rupert."  '  ^  ■     ^'''^^"-    ^  ^  ^^ 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  crédit  this  wild  storv  of  « 
onr^er  marriage  of  Sir  Noel's?  Do  yçu  really  be  ^^  !oui  ■ 
tate  govemess  to  hâve  been  y.„.  du,,.,  J^  .T""^  ^^"^ 


364  'SZff  NOEVS  HEIR. 

"  I  beheve  it,  colonel.  I  hâve  facts  and  statenients,  and 
dyîng  words  to  prove  it.  On  my  father's  death-hed,  he 
made  jny  mcther  swear  to  tell  the  truth,  to  repair  the 
wrong  he  had  done  ;  to  seek  out  his  son,  concealed  by  his 
valet,  Vyking,  and  restore  him  to  his  rights  !  My  mothef 
never  kept  that  promise — thé  cruel  wroiîg^done  to  herself 
was  too  bitter  ;  and  at  my  birth  she  resolved  never  to  keep 
it  I  should  not  atone  for  the  sin  o£  my  father  \  his  elder 
son.should  ne^er  depjrive  her  chjld  of  his  birthrieht  My 
poor  mother  ! ,  You  know  the  cause  of  .that  mysterious 
trouble  whieh  feÙ*  upon  her  at  my  father's  death,  and  which 
darkened  her  life  to  the  last.  Shaîne,  remorsej|anger— 
shame  for  herself — a  wife  only  in  name  j  remorse  for  her 
broken  vow  to  the  dead,  and  anger  against  that  erring 
dead  man." 

"  But  you  told  me  she  had  hunted  him  up  and  provided 
for  him,"  said  the  mystified  colonel. 

*  "  Yes  ;  she  saw  an  advertisement  in  a  London  paper, 
calling  upon  Vyking  to  talvi  chargfe  qf  the  boy  hé.  had  left 
twelVe  years  before.  No^sr  Vykui^,  j  the  ,  varet^  l\ad  l?een 
tçansported  for  house-brealdng  lai^g  before  that,  and  my 
n^other  answered  the  ^dvertisement.  There  could  bë  no' 
doubt  the  child  was  the  child  Vyking  had  taken  charge 
of — Sir  Noël  Thetford's  rightful  heir.  My  moishet^left 
him  with  the  painter,  Legard,  with  whom,"  he  greW  ùp, 
whose  name  he  took  ;  and  he  is  now  at  Thetford  Towers." 
"  I  thought  the  likeness  meant  so^ething,"'muttèred  the 
colonel  under  his  ^raustache,  "  his  patçrnity  Js  plainly 
enough^writteri  in  his  face.  And  so,"  raising  his  voice, 
"  Mrs.  Weymore  recognized.  her  son.  Rpally,  your  story 
runs  like  a  melo-dtama,  where  the  hero  ^rnÇjjjut  to  be  a 

iftark  on  his 

t  * 


t." 


dilke,  and  his  mother  knaws  the  strawber] 


^ 


PARTED. 


36s  ' 


Vv 


f  « 


arm.  Well,  sir,  if  Mrs.  Weymore  is  Sir  î^oel's  rightfu. 
widow,  and  Guy  Legàrd  his  rightful  son  and  heir-pray 
what  are  you  ? '•  ^    ' 

The  colorlèss  face of  tHe  youngman  tumed  darkred  for 
an  ipstant,  then  whiter  thah  before. 

"  My  mother  was  as  tr%  and  really  Sir  Noei^s  wife  as 
woman  can  be  the  wife  of  man  in  the  sight  of  Heaven.  The 
crnnewashis;  the.shame  and  suiïering  hers;  the  at(^ 
men  mine.  Sir  Noel's  elder  son  shall  bê  Sir  Noel's  heil 
I  wiU  Play  usurper  no  longer.  To-morrow  I  leave  Sl 
.Gosport;  the  day  after  England,  never  perhaps.  to  x^ 
^urn.  -  '4 

"  You  are  mad,"  Colonel  Jocyln  said,turning  very  pale- 
."/pu  do  not  mean  it."  .         ,  ^   J' P^'e, 

I  a^  not  mad,  and  I  do  mean'it.^  I  may  be  uflfortu- 
nate;  but,  IprayGod,  never  a  viUa^în.  Right  is  righT- 
ny  brother  Guy  is  the  rightful  beiri-notl  "        "  ' 

^  -'.J/"'^<^"''"u"  ^°'°"''  Jocyln's  face  tumed,  dark  a»ui 
-^  v;ngld  as  iron  as  he  spoke  his  daùghter's  na%ie. 

-  \  sh^"  be  as  she  says.     Ailee.^  toa  noble  and  just 

hersçlf  not  to  Tionor  me  for  d^ing  rijt." 

«  It  shall  be  âs  "I  say,"  réturned  Colonel  Jocyln,  ^th  a 
vg^ce  that  rang,  and  a^ye  that  flashed.    «My  t^wLr 
cornes  t,f  a  prou4  .nd  st^inless  race,  ^nd  neter  ^X 
r        Vatemthonéless,tàidTess.  Hear  me  eut,  youngman  ^U 

^  T   '  tTu''  "^P^^^"  ^''^"^'^  best  suLd^toTpiaf» 
'  »    cas^    Ail  that  has  passed  between  ybuf  and  Mi^  tS 

,    Tower^,  honorably^bom,  I  consentetT.she  ,houId  marrv^  ^ 

H  dear^  ^  Llove  her,  I  would  see.lier  dtàlmyZl 
.   before  she;,shoul#many  6nê%^^:^^  i»a»ts? 

...,•.  .  lit 


# 


Ci 


%■ 


lé 


*« 


S  ». 


%■ 


.î 


w 


4^ 


-■V*' 


■^ 


366 


SIR  NOEVS  HEIR. 


impoverished.     You  said  just  now  the    atonement   waa 
,  yours — ^you  said  right  ;  go,  and  never  return." 

He  pointed  to  the  door  ;  the  young  man,  stonily  still, 
took  his  hat. 

"Will  you  not  permit  your  daughter,  Colonel  Jocyln,  to 
speak  for  herself  ?  "  he  said  at  the  door." 

"  No,  sir.  I  know  my  daughter — my  proud,  high-spirited 
Aileen,  and  iny,ansv/er  is  hers.    I  wish  you  good-ni§ht/' 

He  swnîground  âbmiptly,  tuminghis  back  upon  his  vis- 
itor.      JRxipert   Thetford,  without   one  word^tumed  and 
;  walked  out  of  the  house. 

The  bewildering  rapidity  of  the  shocks  he  had  received 
had  stunned  him — he  could  not  feel  the  pain  now.  There 
was  a  dull  sensé  of  aching  torture  upon  him  from  head  to 
foot— but  the  acute  edge  was  duHed  ;  he  walked  along 
tlirough  the  black  night  like  a  man  di^ed  and  stupefied. 

He  was  only  conscious  intensely  of  one  thing— a  wish 
to  get  away,  never  to  set  foot  in  St.  Gosport  again.  ^  ' 

Like  one  walking  in  his  sleep,  he  reached  Thetford  Tow- 
ers,  his  old  home,  every  tree  and  stone  of  which  was  dear 
to  him.  Hé  entered  at  once,  passed  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  foun^  Guy  Legard,  sitting  before  the  fire,  staring 
blankly  into  the  coals  ;  and  May  Everard,  roaming  rest- 
lessly  up  and  down,  thefirelight  falling  dully  on  her  black 
robps  and  pale,  tear-stained  face.  Both  started  at  his  en- 
trance — al!  wet,  and  pale  and  haggard  ;  but  neither  spoke. 
There  was  that  iri  his  face  which  fi»ze  thè  wjofds  ori  tht.r 
lips.  ^ 

"I  am  going  away  to-morrow,«5e  said,  abruptly,  lean- 
Ing  figainst  the  mantel,  and  loomg  at  them  with  quiet,  " 
•teadfast  êyes.  „ 

May  ultered  a  faint  cry  ;  Guy  faced  him  almost  fiercely. 


.^«JAjl     i 


PARTED. 


36; 


"  Going  away  !,    What  do  you  mean.  Sir  Rupert  ?    We 
are  gomg  away  tbgether,  if  you  like.»  "^ 

Dow/^°    Igo  alone.    You  rémain  hère,  it  is  your  place 

«  Ncver  1  "  cried  the  young  artist,  pâSSionately— "  never  f 
Iwill  go  out  and  die  like  a  dog,  of  stairation,  before  I 
rob  you  of  your  birthright  !  " 

"You  reverse  matters,"  said  Rupert  Thetford  :  «it  is  I 
who  hâve  robbed  you,  unwittingly,  for  too  many  years.     I 
promised  my  mother  on  her  death-bed,  as  she  promised 
myfatheron  his,  that  you  should  hâve  your  righTdl 
wUl  keep  that  promise.     Guy,  dear  old  illow!  do  "leî 
us  quarrel  now  that  we  are  brothers,  after  being  friends 
so  long^    Take  what  is  your  own  ;  the  world  is  ail  before 
me  and  surely  I  am  man  enough  to  #in  my  own  way.  Not 
one  o  her  Word  ;  you  shall  not  co.ne  wi^h'  me  ;  you  might 
as  well  talk  fo  thèse  stone  walls  and  tr|  to  movc  theX 
fo  move  me.     To-morrow  I  go,  and  go  alone." 

Word  ^' ^^^  M^y  ^1^°  breathlipsiy  r«peated  thé 

^' Alone  ;  ail  the  ties  that  bound  me  hère  are  broken  •  I 
go  alone,  and  single  handed;  to  fight  the  battle  of  ^ 
Guy,  I  hâve  spoken  to  the  rector  about  jKJu-you  will  fi„d 
him  your  fnend  and  aider;  and  M.yis  fo  mal  her  home 

mg  fo  the  door,  "  as  I  start  early  fo-,norrow,  i  believe  PU 
retire  early.     G.ood-night."  »      ' 

And  tlien  he  was  gone,  and  Guy  and  Mây  were  left  sUr-    \ 
Ing  at  each  otherwith  blank  faces.  i 

The  sform  of  wind  and  rain  sobbed  itllf  eut  before  '  * 
m,dn.ght  ;  and  in  the  bluest  of  sk.es,  heralded  by  ban1e« 
ef  rosy  douds.  rose  up  the.  nm  rîfirf  morning.    Bcfoxe  UuU 


^     1 


iJ....  ,1.  i  '  /•".  y*~'' 


.i^^'—j^' 


...^'^■'■f 


■> 


•  •■  .  i 


368  '    SIR  NOEVS  HEIR 

nsmgsunhad  gilded  the  tops  Qflhetallest  oâks  in  thc 
park,  he,  wJio  liàd  so  lately  caljed  it  ail  his  own,  had  open- 
e4  the  heavy.oaken  dopr  and  passed  from  Thetfôrd.Tow- 
^ers,  as  home,  forever.  The  house  was  very  still— no  one 
had  i-isen;  he  had  left  a  note  to  Guy,  with  a  few  brief,  ^ 
warm  words  of  farewell. 

"  Better  so,"  hé  thought— "  bettef  so  f  He  and  May  will 
be  happy  tbgether,  for  I  know  he  loves  her,  an4  shehim. 
The  memory  of  my  le;^ve.!^king'éhàll  néver  corne  to  cloud 
their  united  Hves."  ♦ 

Oneiast  baôllvàrd'glance  at  the  éastem  Windows  tum- 
ingtogold;  at  the  sea  blushing  in  the  first  glance  of  the 
dày-king;  at  the  waving  trees  and  swelling  meadows, 
and  gray,old  ivy-grown  front,  and  then  he  passed  down 
the  avenue,  out  ihfough  the  massive  entrance^ates,  and 
was  gonc  -  /    - 


-■•>-a- 


y 


~7T 


t  ' 


.      < 


1*  .  '         * 


'•  y 


.'ii'"x-*.: 


-".  'A 


^' 


n  A.. 


F'    •  '^■J. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AFTER   FIVE    YEARS. 

OONLIGHT  falling  like  a  silvery  veil  over 

Venice-a  crystal   clear  crescent  in  a  pur- 

ple    sky    shimmering    on  pa^ce  and  prison. 

ann^  I         ^J'"^^^^^'  squares  and  canals,  on  the  glided 

A  young  lady  leaned  from  à  window  of  a  vast  Venetian 
hotCgazingthoughtfuIly  at  the  silver-ligl^    an^Ce 

eyes.     A  young  lady,  stately  and  tall,  wkh  a  pale,  proud 
face,  deep,  dark  eyes,  solemn,  shining,  fathomless  Hke 

s":nT":%^'"^  ^ark  nngletstd  a  statSsqte  " 
sort  of  beauty  that^  was  ^rfect  in  its  way.     She  was 
dressed  m  trailing.obes  of  crape  and  bombaine,  andl^ 
face  turned  to  the  moonlight,  was  cold  and  stiU 

She  turned  her  eyés  from  the  moonlit  canal,  down  which 
dark  gondolas  fioated  tô  the  music  of  the  gay  gondotrt 
song;once,as  an  Englishvoice  in  the  piazza  below  suJ 
a  stave  of  a  jingliqg  barcarole,  •  *     ^ 

"Oh    gay  we  row  where  fulï^dês^ow 

And  bear  our  bounding'pmnace  ;  • 

And  leap  along  where  song.iheets  song, 
AcroM  the  wavw  of  Venice.»  ^      '  ^ 

11 1 : -ik 


T^ 


f^' 


■■•■■».  - 


"               .                            < 

^  j» 

1 

-V              ;^-     ■ 

•         m 

...      A         y-          '§ 

h 

■   1^4' i- 

r 


370 


^ 


im^' 


S/H  NOEVS  HEIR. 


"-m 


The  singer,  a  tall  young  man,  with  a  floiid  face,  and 
yeUow  side  whiskers,  an  unmistakable  son  of  the  «  fight 
litrie,  tight  little  "  island,  paused  in  his  song,  as  another 
non,  sttœping  through  an  open^window,  struck  hira  an 
aiiy  slei^e-hammer  slap  on  the  back.  '      * 

"  lought  to  know  that  voice,"  said  the  last  è^er. 
"  Mortimer,  xm  lad,.how  goes  it?"  ' 

"  Stafford!"  cried  the  singer,  sei^i^r  the  outstretched 
hand  m  a  genuine  English  grip,  «  hap^y  to  meet  you.  old 
boy,  m  the  land  of  romance  I  La  Fabre  told  me  you  were 
C^ming— but  who  would  look  for  you  so  soon?  I  thought 
you'A^ere  doing  Sorrento ?" 

'  ♦'Got  tired  of  Sorrento,'*  said  Stafford,  taking  his  arm 
forawalkupanddownthepiazza;  "  there's  a  fever  there, 
too—quite  an  épidémie— malignant  typhus.  Discrétion' 
is  the  better  part  of  valor,  where  Sorrento  fevers  are 
çoncerned.    I  left."  - 

«Whendidyou  reach  Venice  ?  "  asked  Mortjmer,  light- 
ing^/:igar. 

fhn  .hour  agôj  and  now  who's  hère?    Any  one  I 
krfow?"  ' 

"  Lots.  The  Cholm(M\adeys,  the  Lythons,  the  Howards 
of  LeighwoQd  ;  and,  by-the-by,  they  hâve  with  them  the 
Marble  Bride.*' 

"  Thg  which  ?  "  asked  M  r.  Htaiford. 

"The  Marbte  Brlae,  the  Ihhitess  Frostina,  otherwis« 
Miss  Aileen  Jocyhi,  *of  jocyln  Hait  Uewnshire.     You 
knew  the  bld  colonel,  I  think— he  dled  owr  a  year  aso 
you  i^meiMber."  ^       -e  » 

.  **  Ah,  yes  1 1  r^embe?.    ïs  ske  hère  with.  t&e  Howards,    * 
Jind as  handsom»  as  ever,  no'doubt ?" 
-     "  H^ndsome  to  my  mind,  with  an  upWted  and  onapproach 


T  * 


f    ^    *  '■i'"' 


y^ 


AFTER  FIVE  YEARS.  3^^ 

bng  t  particular  star,  etc.,  as  the  fabulousiy  wealthy  heiress 
of  ail  the  Jocylns.  She  bas  nx)  end  of  3Uitbrs-alI  the  btst 
men^h,;.  bow1.t  the  shrine  of  the  ice.old  Ailée"    a^d^Î  " 

the  mar^k  s  yle,  you  k„„„,  „evçr  «as  to  n,y  tast.     i 
adm,re  M.ss  JocyJn  ta^ensely,  j„st  as  I  do  thi  m«„  up 

'*;?'"'*»0P«ticular  désire  ever,oget„earer."        ^' 
Whatwasthatstorylheardonce,fiveyearsago  abouta 

'hftirerT'""'-   ^-""hetford  o/fta.Th'ro 
the  taie?    The  roinant.c  Thetford,  who  resigned  his  tkfe 
and  estate  to  a  mysterious.y-found  elder  brothf^,  Z\Z 
Tl)e  sto^r  rang  through  the  papers  and  the  clubs  atTé 
-me  Ife  wi^fire,  and  set  the  „hoIe  countr^  ta  kîng  I     ' 

oddfff  ?'*'J''«,«<>'y-I"'t  «ho  knows?  I  recollect  that 
odd  affair  perfectiy  well  ;  it  was  like  the  melo-dran,as  on  Ae 
Surrey  s,de  of  the  Thames.  I  know  the  'mysteriôuSv 
ound  elderbrother,-  too-very  fine  fellow,  Sir  CS 
ford,  and  married  to  the  prettiest  little  wife  the  sun  shini  ' 
on  I  mus,  say  RuperJ  Tljetford  behaved  wonderfully  wl 
m  tha,  unpleasant  businesî  ;  very  few  men  would  do  Ji^ 
did-they  would,  at  least,  hâve  made  a  %ht  for  the  tidA 
and^estates.    By-,he-way,  I  fonder  „hat  ever  LaLe  rf^ 

M  lefthim  at'Sorrento,"  said  Stailord,coolly. 
.,  ^"^^  yo"  did  I   What  was  hedoing  there  ?  " 
Raymg  ,„  the  fever;  so  the  people  told  me  with  whom 
l»e.topped.    Iiustdiscoveredhewa, in  t^  Place  ^rw" 

V  "  / 


14  (     . 


* 


\ 


■v^* 


»».:• 


372 


S/H  NO  EUS  HEIR. 


^    ■ 


about  to  leave  it.  He  had  falleq  vçry  low,  I  fancy  ;  hia 
pictures  didn't  sell,  I  suppose  ;  he  lias  been  in  the  iJainting 
line  since  he  ceased  to  be  Sir  Rup«rt,  and  the  world  haa 
gone  against  him.  Rather  hard  ort  him  to  lose  fortune, 
title,  home,  bride,  and  ail  at  one  felrswoop." 

•*  And  se  you  left  him  ill  of  thç  fevGr  ?    Poor  fellow  1  " 

"  Dangeroi^sly  ill." 

"And  the  people  with  whom  he  is  will  take  very  little 
careof  him.  He's  as  good  as  dead.  Let  us  go  itf-I 
want  to  hâve  a  look  at  the  latest  English  papers." 

The  two  men  passed  in,  out  of  the  moonlight,  pff  the 
piazza,  ail  uncoiiscious  that  they  had  had  a  listener.  The 
pale  watcher  in  the  traiîing  black  robes  scarcely  heeding 
them  at  first,  had  grown  more  and  more  absorbed  in  the 
careless  conversation.  .She  caught  her  breath  quick 
and  hard,  the  dark  eyes  dilated,  the  slender  hands  pressea  x 
tight  over  the  throbbing  heart  As  they  went  in  oflf  the  '\ 
balcony,  she  slid  from  her  seat  and  held  up  herclasped 
hands  to  the  luminous  night  sky.  *^ 

"Hère  me,  OGodl"^e  vhite  lips  cried.     "I,  who 
liave  aided  in  wrecking  a  noble  heart,  hear  me,  and  help  éfe  ^ 
to  keep  my  vowl     I  ofFer  my  whole  life  in  *'i>n^ment  for      ^ 
the  cruel  and  wicked  past.    If  he  dies.  l'  sl.v/I  go  té  my 
grave  his  unwediied'widow.    If  he  liv^— " 

Jïer  voice  falteted  and  dièd  out,  her  face  d/opped  for- 
ward  on  the  wirjdçw-sill,  and  the  moonlight  £«A  like  a  bea 
ediction  on  the  bowed  young  head. 


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1 


a.-- 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AT  SORRENTO. 

the  bay  of  Naples  lay  ro.y  i„  ,he  haz.  of  .h, 

a  child  '    ^^^'  shadow,Worn  and  yeak  as 

face  of  an  Endishman  nf  th.  i^Jl  .,._    ^  iooks.in— the 


face  of  an  Englishman  of  the  lower  ckssâs, 

LncT 


J  ^î?''^°'/°'  y^"'  ^^^Hust  corne,  anf  *a-foot  •  a  ladv 
sir.  She  wiUnotgive  her  name,  but  wishes  Z\L  ^' 
«nostparticular,  if  youplease."     •  "^  '^^  ^^^ 

"  A  lady  1    To  see  me  ?  "  *    '      ' 

The  invalidopens  his  dark eyes 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  an  Englisli  lady,  si| 


jonder  as  he  speaks 
'  in  bJéck.  and  « 


■^. 


nS' 


AJ¥^' 


4  :-'::*■  '«<'««*•■•■■•*-■"-" 


374 


SIR  NOEVS  HEIR, 


weanng  of  a  thick  veil.  She  asked  for  Mr.  Rapert  Thetford 
as  soon  as  she  see  me,  as  plain,  as  plain,  sir—" 
<The  young  man  in  the  chair  started,  half  rose,  and  then 
•Itek^ack  ;  an  eager  light  lit  in  the  hoUow  eyes. 

**  Let  her  corne  in,  I  wîU  see  her." 
'      The  man  disappeared  ;  there  was  an  instànt's  pause,  thçn 

âtall,slenderfigure,drapedand  veiled  in  black,  entered 
ajone.  '  ^ 

The  visitor  stood  still.  Once  more  the  invalid  attempt- 
ecl  to  nse,  once  more  his  strength  failed  him.  The  lady 
threw  back  her  veil  with  a  sudden  émotion. 

"  My  God,  Aileen  !" 


nherknees  before  him,  lifting  her  suppliant 


^^'   "^e!  forgive  me!    Ihave  seemed   the  most 
heartless  and  cruel  of  women.     But  I  too.  hâve  suffered 
1  am  base  and  unworthy  ;  but,  oh  !  forgive  me,  if  you  can  "' 

Ihe  old  love,  stronger  then  death,  shone  in  her  eyes 
plead  m  her  passionate,  sobbing  voice,  and  went  to  lois 
very  heart 

"Ihave  beenso  wretched,  so  wretched  ail  thèse  mis- 
érable years.  While  my  father  lived,  I  would  not  dis 
obey  his^  stern  command,  that  I  was  never  to  attempt  to 
see  or  hear  from  you,  and  at  his  death  I  could  not  You 
seemed  lost  to  me  and  to  the  world.  Only  by  the  merest 
accident  I  heard  in  Venice  you  were  hère,  and  ill— dying 
I  lost  no  time  ;  I  came  hither  at  ortce,  hoping  against  hope 
to  find  you  alive.  Thank  God.I  did  come.  O  Ruperti 
for  the  sake  ôf  the  past  forgive  ^e.", 

"Forgive  you!  and  he tried  to  raise her.  "Alieen— dar 
ling  !" 


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AT  SORRENTÔ. 

375 

His  weak  arms  encircled  her  and  the  n^i«  i- 
passionate  kisses  on  the  tear-weVfl^'        ''"  '""^' 

.at  in  the  soft  ha/e,  a!  Ada^ an^Ev'^^^^^^^^^^       '^ 
lovelmess  of  Eden.  ^  ^  ^^  ^^^ 

leng,"™  '™^  '""  '"'"  '^"  ^"S'^"''  ?"  R"P-'  asked.  at 

"  Two  years  ago  ;  poor  papa  died  in  the  South  o£  France 
-you  mustn't  blâme  him  too  much,  Rupert  " 

and  Mayaremarried?    I  k„e„  they  would  be."  "^ 

Uid  you?    I  „as  so  surprised  when  I  read  it  in  th» 

w^^£,a„t,oaUy  angry  with  me.     Do  they  kn^ow  you  t 

"No,  I  rarely  write,  and  I  am  constantly  movin?  aho,„  . 
to  I  know  that  Guy  is  yery  much  belovedTn  St  ^s"' 
We  w,n  go  back  to  England,  one  of  thèse  day    my  daT 

SufThT.r  ^"=^''^'  ^"P"-  '"eybaîe  "c'eived 
smce  Guy  Thetford  learned  who  he  really  was  " 

He  smiled  as  he  sard  it-the  old  bright  smile  she  re      ' 
SXtr'^^"'    ^--'i-y^'-^'^'oebea^titV;    ^ 

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Sdenœs 
Corpoïation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(  71*  )  872-4503 


'4^ 


CHAPTER  XVli 


J  AT  HOME. 

NOTHERjSunset,  red  and  gorgeous,  over  sweJl- 
ing  English  meadows,  waving  trees,  and  grassy 
tenace,  lighting  up  with  its  crimson  radiance 
the  gray  forest  of  Thetford  Towers. 
In  the  pretty,  ^iry  summer  drawing-room,  this*red  sun- 
set  streamsthrough  open  western  Windows,  kindling  every 
thmg  mto  living  light.   ,  It  falls  on  the  bright-haired  girlish 
figure,  dressed  m  floating  white,  seated  in  an  arm-chair  in 
the  centre  of  .the  room,  too  çhildish-Iooking,  you  might 
fancy,  at  ^rsf  sight,  to  be  mamma  to  that  fat  baby  she 
holds  m  her  lap  ;  but  she  is  not  a  bit  too  childish.     And 
that  is  papa,  tall  and  handsome,  and  hapri*.,  who  leans 
over  the  chair  and  looks  as  men  do  look  oî  what  is  tfee 
apple  of  their  eye,  and  the  pride  of  their  hear^ 

"  It's  high  time  baby  was  christened,  Guy,"  Lady  Thet- 
ford—for,  of  course,  Lady  Thetford  it  is— was  saying  • 
«  and,  do  you  know,  I  am  really  at  a  loss  for  a  name.  You 
won't  let  me  call  hira  Guy,  and  I  sha'n't  call  him  Noël— 
and  so  what  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

"  Rupert,  of  course,"  Sir  Guy  suggests  ;  and  little  Lady 
Tlietford  pouts. 

"  He  does  not  deserve  the  compliment.  Shabby  fellow  I 
To  keep  wandering  about  the  world  a^'  he  does,  and  never 
lo  answer  one's  letters  ;  and  I  sent  him  half  a  ream  last 


■^ 


..■^î?r^ 


AT  HOME. 


37; 


tub  you  kno„.  And  to  think  it  should  be  a^l  of  ne  me  To 
thinkof  not  receiving  a  line  in  return  °  ."'^  T-  ^° 
.ha„eM„,.  .„d  !,/„,  .en^lX,,  bX^Ku^n^"' 
.^^,0h,  yes  you  ™il,  „y  dear,    Well,  Smithers,  IZ  i, 

_For  Mr.  Smithers,  the  butler,  stood  in  tl,e  door-wav 
wiUi  a  veiy  pale  and  startied  face.  ^' 

"It'sagentleman-Ieastwaysalady— leastwavi  ,  \.A„ 
lirtT-  ^^  "-«''ycome'.hSwJ  ..'  """ 
Mr.  Smithers  refred  precipitately,  still  pale  and  startiei 

Deiore  bir  Guy  and  Lady  Thetford 

nearly  dropped  ."^1  bS!  ^"""^  '°  ""  '-••  -" 
"Rupert!    Aileen!" 

inettord,  for  she  was  kiss  ne  first  one  th^n  th»     .u^ 
cryjng  and  laughing,  and  talkfng  ail  in  a  Ceal^'^  °^'"- 

I  m  so  glad  to  see  you  again  I    O  Aileen  1    I  neve7neve; 
Sa/Lr'    ^"^'^«"^'- think  itshouMÏÏirn:: 

tears  standing  m  hiseyes,  and  quite  unable  to  reply.     ^ 
And  tJus  ,s  the  baby,  May?  The  wonderfui  baby  you 

^. noble  httlefellow,  upon  myword;  and  a  The'ford 
from  toy  to  toe.  Am  I  in  season  to  be  g^dfnfh.r  ?  » 


*-  ^r'*- 


378 


S/H  NOËL  S  HEIR. 


been  Rupert 


"Just  in  season.     The  name  was*to  haye     „ 

in  any  case,  but  a  moment  ago  I  was  scoldinj  frightfully* 
because  you  had  ndt  answered  my  letter,  litt|e  dreaming 
you  were  coming  to  answer  in  persori.  And  iAileen  too  ! 
'  Oh!  my  dear,  may  deàr,  sit  dqwn  at  once  and  tell  me  ail 
about  it."  n 

Mrs.  Thetford  smiles  at  the  old  impetuosity,  and  in  veiy 
few  words  tells  the  story  of  the  meeting  and  th^  marriage. 

"Of  course  you  remain  in  England?"  Sir  Guy  eagerly 
asked,  when  he  had  'heard  the  brief  résumé  of  those  past 
five  years.  «Of  course  Jocyln  Hall  is  to  be  hedd-quarters 
and  home  ?  **        -  • 

"  YeS,"  Rupert  says,  his  eyes  for  a  moment  '  lingering 
lovingly  on  his  wife,  "Jocyln  Hall  is  home.  We  hâve  not 
yet  been  there  ;  we  came  at  once  :here  to  see  the  most 
wonderful  baby  of  .modem  times— my  handsome  little 
namesake."  '  J^^ 

"It  fs  just  like  a  faify  taie,"  is  ail  Lady  ThR.  can 
say  then ;  but  late  that  night,  when  the  reg#iitedfriends 
were  in  their  chambers,  she  lifted  her  goldep^ïiead  off  the 
pillow,  and  looked  at  her  husband  entering  the  room. 
«It's  so  very  odd,  Guy,"  slowly  antt  drowsily,  «to  think 
that,  after  ail,  a  Rupert  Thetford  should  be  Sàr  NodU  & 
ifer."  7 


■s 


^ 


..  .4 


4^1 


-A' . 


r-. 


r 


A.ÇARK'CONSPIRAGY. 


KZ^  "«-^want  to  ■naro'heri-  c'ried 
Tom  Maxwell  fa  a  fiw  fury.  "I  tell  you  I 
hate.her,  and  I  hope  she  may  die  a  misérable, 
disappointed,  cantanfcrous  old  maid  I  " 

eyes  flashmg.  his  veo-  coat-tail  q»ivering  with  ragê_a 
BengaJ  Uger.  robbed  o£  her  young,  could  not  baVe  ÎS 

namrÏ  Ttô^'T"  'Î!'^"'-  '  ^"^  ^"  '"-"^  «-  "^ 
natural  to  To,,  M,xwell-handsome  Tom,  whose  years 

were  o,Jy  two-atKl-twenty,  and  wbo  wa.  hot-headed  and 

fo  t  blT""       '  ""  '•''  '"  *^  """"=  o"-o-and-.wen.y 
to  be  but  by  no  means  innately  Savage.    But  he  had  iu« 

been  |,lted  jilted  in  coldblood  ;  so  up'and  dot;  he  tfroSe 
grmdmgh,s  teethvindiotively,  and  fulminating  anathe™ 
maranathas  against  his  fair  deceiver.  ™»">«"'a 

"The  misérable,  heartlessjiltl  The  deceitful  shame- 
IesscoqueneI"burstoutTom,fer„ciously.  "ik  g^t 
me  even-  encouragement  that  a  woman  could  give,  until 

l-l^J^Md  thm  she  turaa^^und  »ad  amte  aBiTpaa - 


:*< 


'«♦. 


38o 


a\dark  conspiracy. 


her  handkçrchief  to^er  eyes  and  is  * very  sorry,'  "mimicking 
the  féminine  intona^on/V  *and  never  dreamed  o£  such  a 
thing,  and  will  be  vèry  happy  to  be  my  friend  ;  but  for 
anything  further— oh  i  dear,  Mr.  Maxwell,  pray  don't  thiuk 
of  it  I  '  Confound  hett  and  the  whole  treacherous  sex  to 
which  she  belongs  !  But  Vjù.  not  done  with  her  yet  1  l'U 
hâve  revenge  as  sure  ak  my  iiame  is  Tom  Maxwell  !  " 
"As  how  ?  "  asked  a  lazv  Voice  from  the  sofa.  "  She's 
'      >  a  woman,  you  know.     BeinJ^a  woman,  you  can't  very  well 

call  her  out  and  shoot  her^  or  horsewhip  her,  or  even  knock 
her  down.  A  fellow  may  feel  like  that— I  often  hâve  my- 
self,  after  being  jilted  ;  but  still  it  can't  be  did.  It's  an 
absurd  law,  I  allow,  this  polite  exemption  of  womankind 
from  condign  and  just  punishment  ;  but  it  is  too  late  in 
the  day  for  chaps  like  you  and  me  to  go  tilt  against 
.  popular -préjudices." 

It  was  a  long  speech  for  Paul  Warden,  who  was  far  too 
indolent  generally  to  get  beyond  monosyllables.  He  lay 
strètched  at  full  length  on  the  sofa,  languidly  smoking  the 
brownest  of  meergckaums,  and  dreamily  watching  the 
smoke  curl  and  wreath  around  his  head.  A  génial,  good- 
looking  fellow,  five  yeàrs  Tom's  senior,  and  remarkably 
clever  in  his  profession,  Ihe  law,  ^hen  not  too  lazy  to  ex- 
ercise it. 

Tom  Maxwell  pâttsed  in  his  excited  striding  to  look  in 
astonishment  at  the  speaker. 
I  «  You  jilted  I  "  he  said,   '"  Vou  1    You,  Paul  Warden, 

the  irrésistible  !  " 

"Even  so,  mon  ami.  Like  measles,  and  mumps,  and 
tooth-cutting,  it's  something  a  màn  has  to  go  through,  will> 
nilly.  l've  been  jilted  and  heart-broken  some  half-dozen 
times,  more  or  less,  and  hère  I  am  to-night  not  a  ha'penny 


A  DARK  CONSPfRACY.  \   -^j 

the  worse  for  it,  So  go  it,  Tom  my  boy  I  The  more  you 
r^t  .nd  rave  now,  the  sooner  the  pain  wilL  be  over.  ï°'s 
nothmg  when  you're  used  to  it.  By-the^ay,-  turning  his 
indolent  eyes  slowly,  «  is  she  pretty,  Tom  ?  «'  ^ 

take^lr?' p    '''^  ^^°'"'  •'^-dig^-'^tly.  •  "  What  do  you 
«  Waj-dçn  l  it  drives  me  mad  to  think  of  it  !  " 
bhe  s  ail  my  fancy  painted  her-she's  lovely    she's 
dmnV'  quoted  Mr.  Warden  ;  «but  her  heart,  U  is  an' 
other  s,  and  ,t  never-    What's  her  name,  Tom  .>  » 

and  fweTi  h"'"'"''''  "  ^°^  ^^^  ^^^"^  ^"  ^^is  olace  four- 
and-twenty  hours,  you  would  hâve  no  need  to  ask.  Half 
the  men  m  town  are  spooney  about  her  " 
J'Fanny.  Ah  !  a  very  bad  omen.  Never  knew  a  Fanny 
yet  who  wasn'^  a  natural  born  flirt.  What's  the  sty1^ 
dark  or  fair,  belle  blonde,  or>//^  brunette ?" 

si?tible  !    Oh  !     cried  Tom,  with  a  dismal  groan,  sinking 
into  a  chair,  "it  is  too  bad.  /..  bad  to  be  treLd  so  ! "      ^ 
So  it  is,  my  poor  Tom.      She  deserved  the  baslinado 

ZZ'tlT^'     v'  '"^'"^'°  notbeingpracticable; 

irii  she  t  °,  r'''"^  '''''  ''^  ^^'^'^^^  Punishment 
and  she  shall  hâve  it  ;  paid  back  in  her  own  coin,  and 
wiflimterest,too.     EI^?    Well?"  '  ^ ,   "^n  com^  and 

.nf^:  Jr„Vel:r''  "'•  "  "'^  '^^^^^^^  «oued 

•hall  be  paid  m  her  own  coin,  and  ni  hâve  most  gloriou, 
revenge,  rf  you'll  only  help  me,  Paul."  ^ 

nJ'.'^"  r'f  breat^Tom;  only  don't  make  so  much 


'A 


%     ■•• 


$82 


A  DARK  CONSPIRA  C  Y. 


**  Paul,  they  call  you  irrésistible— the  women  dd" 

'  "  Do  they  ?    Very  polite  of  them.     Well  ?  "  ^. 

"Well,  being  irrésistible,  why  can't  you  make.Iove  to 
Fanny  Summers,  talk  her  into  a  dêsperate  attachment  to 
you,  ahd  theîi  treat  htàt  as  she  has  treated 'me— jilt  her  ?  ** 

Paul  Warden  opened  his  large,  dfeànfiy  eyes  to  their 
widest,  and^ed  them  on  his  excited  young  friend. 

"  Do  you  mean  it,  Tom  ?  " 

"Never  meant  anything  more  in  my  life,  Paul." 

"But  supposing  ï  could  do  it;  supposing  I  am  the 
irrésistible  conqueror  you  gallantly  make  me  out  ;  suppos- 
ing I  could  talk  the  .charming  Fanny  into  that  déplorable 
attachment— it  seems  a  shame,  doesn't  it?  " 

"A  shame  !"  exclaimed  poor  Tom,  smarting  under  a  sensé 
of  his  own  récent  wrong  ;  "  and  what  do  you  call  her  con- 
duct  tome?  It's  a  poor  rule  that  won't  work  both  ways. 
Let  her  hâve  i^erself,  hot  and  strong,  and  see  how  shô 
likes  it— she's  e^yned  it  richly.  You  can  do  it,  I  Hnow, 
Paul;  you  hâve  a  way  with  you  among  women.  I  don't 
understand  it  myself,  but  I  see  it  takes.  You  can  do  it, 
and  you're  no  friend  of  mine,  Warden,  if  you  don't." 

"  Do  it  !  My  dear  fellow,  irhat  wouldn't  I  do  to  oblige 
you  ;  break  fifly  hearts,  if  you  asked  me.  Here's  my 
hand — ^it's  a  go."  ,< 

**  And  you'U  flirt  with  her,  and  jilt  her  ?  " 

**  With  the  help  of  the  gods.  Let  the  campaign  begin 
at  once,  let  me  see  my  fair,  future  victim  to-night" 

"  But  you'll  be  careful,  Paul,"  said  Tom,  cooling  down 
as  his  friend  warmed  up.  «She's  very  pretty,  uncom- 
monly  pretty  ;  youVe  no  idea  how  pretty,  and  she  may 
turn  the  tables  and  subjugate  you,  instead  of  you  subjùga* 
ling  her." 


^ 


A  DARK  CONSPIRA  Cr. 


383 

q-ickly."'       '  "  ''■'""'■  '«"■■«  ««"  'twere  done 

rainer  C  '"'  "'^'"- "  "'^  ^om,  looking  ouf  "it-, 
raimng.     Doyoumind?"  s  ""^^     ics 

"Shouidn't  mind  if  it  rained  pitchforks  in  c.       \ 
cause.     Get  vour  overm^t'  o  ^    ^'^^'^^^«s  m  so  good  a 

Detore  the  moon  wanes.  '  Now  tlien  Miss  F^n»      ^"^^^^^ 
quering  hero  cornes  I  »  '    «      ^""y»  the  con- 

bve  emphasis  ^  ^^'"  vindic- 


?«*•    '^"i  \ 


3^4 


A    DAkK  CONSPIRACy. 


aiW  acknowledged  Mrf^arden's  bow  by  the  brîghtest  ol 
jjTniles,  as  they  were  ushered  into  the  family  parlor. 

"  We  are  quite  alone,  tliis  rainy  night,  my  sister  and  t," 

she  said.     "  Mr.  Walters  is  out  of  town  fort  day  or  two. 

Fanny,  my  dear,  Mr.  Warden  ;  my  sister,  Miss  Summers, 
Mr.  Warden.  î'' 

Itwas  a  prett>v=cozy  room,  "ourtained,  and  clQse,and 
warm  ;"  and  directly  under  the  gas-Iight,  reading'a  lady's 
magazine,  sat  one  of  the  prettiest  girls  it  had  ever  been 
Mr.  Warden's  good  fortune  to  see,  and  who  welcomed 
him  with  a  brilliant  smile. 

"  Black  eyes;  jetty  ringlets,  rosy  cheeks,  alabaster  brQw," 
thought  Mr.  Warden,  taking  stock;  "the  smilè  of  an 
angel,  and  dressed  to  perfection.  Poor  Tom  !  he's  to  be 
pitied.  Really,  I  haven't  corne  across  an^thing  so  much 
to  my  taste  this  montkof  Sundays." 

.Pown  sat  Mr.  Paul  Warden  beside  the  adorable  Fanny, 
plunging  into  conversation  at  once  with  an  ease  and 
fluency  that  completely  took  away  Tom's  breath.  That 
despondent  wooer  on  the  sofa,  beside  Mrs.  Walters,  pulled 
dejectedly  at  the  ears  of  her  little  black-and-tan  terrier; 
and  answered  at  random  ail  the  pleasant  things  shé  said 
to  him.  He  was  listening,  poor  fellow,  to  that.  brîlliant 
flow  of  small  talk  from  the  mustached  lips  of'Jig  dashing 
friend,  and  withing  the  g(^ds  had  gifted  him  with^i  similar 
"gift  of  the  gab,"  and  fe^ling  miserably  jealous  already. 
He  had  prepared  the  rack  for  himself  with  his  eyes  wide 
open  ;  but  that  made  the  ^rture  none  the  less  when  the 
machinery  got  in  motionL  Pretty  Fanny  sriubbed  him 
inconlinently,  and  was  ju^t  as  bewitching  as  she  knew 
howto  his  fiiend  It  wasi  a  clear  case  of  diamond  eut 
diamond— two  flirts  pitted  against  each  other;  and  aa 

I   ;  ■      .     • 


A  DARK  CONSPIRA  CV. 


then  a  wild  launch  into  literatur,.  „„    i  °""  ' 

•  then  ihe  weather  ;  ,he„  Mr  Ward  '  """"''=•  *°'"- 

relating  hU  "hai^breadeh  03^^^^^  T"!"^'  ^"^ 

•  while  brieht-eved  F,n„    r  f  "^^Ç^*  ^^  ""od  and   field," 

in  a  twinuLg  Se"  :    tn     ""rdtlf f  "  r  '  ^"* 
gers  flying  over  the  polished  kevs  a'^  l  ■'■  her  «-hfte-  fin- 

herwithanentra;,cedface     Th»  \  '"'""^  ^''<"* 

.ightf„nove.s„„g"i„it:Lio'i™.etrvkts  ^r 

have  cap„va,ed  any  heart  that  ever  beatSllf  ,       ^^^' 
muslm  ;  and  then  Fanny  „as  singin 'a  soH^f   °  '"*  ^^ 

^^.eX:T*^Eht\:i*-:^^^ 

hotface.     He  was  sulkv«in«    ,  '"'  '=~'  ''^ 

gun;t:;ttwo;'Lt";:fe:r';r  ""■''^^  "-  "- 

uridermined.    Upon  mv  Word  r    '     !  '"""y''  ^^'"P"'» 

apletlr^t^",   "on'MhinfxeL.pene 

U.n^:fo.n;o'er„1^-„..'^^  '^  '^-'  -"  «".  and 
"My  dear  fellow.  ifs  no«  possiM,  yafe  j^o„.j  i,„._ 


r 


^^ 


3B6 


A  DARK  CONSPIRA  C y! 


thât  what  you  wantéci?  Besides,  theçe  isnoreàson,  really, 
she  is  a  professional  flfh,  and  understands'  h^r  business  ; 
yoû  and  I  know  just^how  miuch  value  to  put  ori  ail  that 
sweetness.  •  Hâve  a  cigar,  my  dear  boy,  and  keep  up  your 
heart  j  we'll  fix  the  flirting  Fannj  yet,  please  the  pigs  !  " 

This  was  ail  very  true;  but,  somehow,  it  wasn't  conso* 
^  ling.  She  was  nothing  to  him,  Tom,  of  course — a»â  he 
hated  her  as  hotly  as  ever  ;  but,  som^ow,  bis  thirst  for 
Vengeance  had  consideiably  côoled  down.  The  cure  vtàs 
worse  than  tl^e  diseasé.  It  wasinaddenlng  to  a  young  man 
in  his  fmme  ôf  mind  to  see  those  brilliant  smiles,  tl^ose  en- 
trancing  glaifS^s,  ail  those  pretty,  coquettisfi,  wi)manly,' 
wiles  that  had  dçluded  him  showered  upon  another^  eveh 
for  that  other's  delusion.  Tôm  vvished  he  had  never  thought 
of.pevenge,  at  least  with  Paul  Warden  for  his  handsome 
agent. 

"  Are  you  going  there  again  ?  "  he  asked,  moodily. 

"Of  course,"  replied  Mr.  Warden,  airjly.  "What  a 
quCTtion,  old  fellovv,  from  you  of  ail  people.  I)idn't  you 
hear  the  little  darling  telling  me  to  call  qgaint  ^  She  over-^ 
loôked  you  coippletely,  by-the;by.  I'ni..^oing  again,  and 
again,  and  yet  again,  until  my  friend,  my  ^d€S  Achates,  is 
ayenged."  ^ 

"Ah!"said  Tom,  sulkily,'"but  I.  don't  know  that  I 
care  so  .much  ior  vengeance  as  I  did.^  Second  thoughts 
are  best  j  and  it  struck  r[ie,  whilst  I  watched  you  both  to- 
night,  that  it  was  mean  and  underhand  to-  plot  against  a 
woman  like  this.  You  thought  so  yourself  at  first,  you 
know."  ♦ 

"  \3'\àA  ?  I  forget.  Well,  I  think  diflferently  now,  my 
dear  Toih  ;  and  as  you  ^remark,  second  thoughts  are  best 
My  honor  is^feit  stake  ;  isp  put  your  conscientious  scruples 


( 


J 


A  DARK  CONSPÏRACY. 


■ihovy  ycrsclf  before  nine     By  bv  p'       ^     ^""^  '"""^'• 

•  Paul,  „y  ,o„,  lUtle  bhok  eye  '?&  ^T^K  '' "'•  ''""^• 
of  calico  you  hâve  me,  il S'^eT,  ,  ^'^^'^  P''^« 
wanted  a  wife  «,hirh  „      T' ,    "       '''"'j'  ''  ^nd  if  you 

<"«^4ear-s  sake  you  can^:  l'y  .f  "  ^  ''  *"^  '"  *«  ' 

to  there  entlironerf  before  Wm       l  t  ^""^  '"'•^*-'  "«'•'»*    • 
shine  of  U,e  lovely  Fan '1       '•,        ^'""''«'  '"  *=  ^x» 
been  ,he,e  Vo™    'JZ  ^^Z.  «""""S  he  had 
Mrs.  Walters  „ere  just  see^ng  ,'.ol  ta  The  .!""^  ""* 
white,  his  gift,  Tom  felfTt  >ï        °'  "»<=», -pi„fc.a„d.  , 
and  i„.o  wU  she  pûnld  L    "•?  ?  ^"""^'^  "-"' 
five  seconds.    It  wasÏÏdTg  i„3Tu'"r''.'""\»°^«  «'^-7 
delight  that  aggravating  2  fêk   „  K  '^'?'  ""  """"«' 
and  Tom  ground  his  tef  ,h  [ii   ^      ^"  ^"'"'''^  ^«'^«'y  J      • 

pleasure  in  life.  ,  "^        -  '  ^  ^"'  ^"^  a"  the 


-        >^ 


J     1' 


::ïl:"-'M 


I*»f"' 


388 


A  DARK  CONSPIRA  C  Y. 


>>■ 


were  but  a  répétition  of  the  first.  An  easy  flow  of  del'ght- 
fui  small  talk,  music,  singing,  and  reading  aloud.  Yes,  Paul 
Warden  read  aloud,  as  if  to  goad  that  unhappy  Tom  te 
open  madness,  in  the  most  musical  of  masculine  voiqes, 
out  of  little  blue-and-gold  books,  Tennyson,  and"  Longfel 
low,  and  Owen  Méredith  j  and  Fanny  would  sit  in 
breathless  earnestness,  her  color  coming  and  going,  her 
breath  fluttering,  her  eyes  full  of  tears  as  often  as  not 
fixed  on  Paul's  claisic  profile.  Tom  didn't  burst  out 
openly — he  made  no  scène  ;  he  only  sat  and  glowered  in 
malignant  silence — and  that  is  saying  everything  for  his 
power  of  self-control. 

Two   months    passed;  hot  weather  was  coming,  and 
Fanny  begun  to  talk  of  the  beat  and  the  dust  of  the  town  ; 
of  being  home-sick,  for  the  sight  of  green  fields,  new  milk, 
atrawberry-patches,  new-laid  eggs,  and  pa  and  ma.     It  had 
been  a  very  delightful  two    months,  no  doubt  ;    and  she 
had  enjoyed  Mr.  Warden's  society  very  much,  and  gone 
driving  and  walking  with  him,  and  let  him  take  her  to  the 
th.eatre,  and  the  opéra,  and  played  for  him,  and  sung  for 
him,  and  danced  with  him,  and  accepted  his  bouquets,  ^nd 
new  music,  and  blue-and-gold  books  ;  but,  for  ail  that,  it  was 
évident  she  could  leave  him  and  go  home,  and  still  exist. 
"  It's  ail  very  nice,''  Miss  Summers  had   said,  tossing 
back  her  black  ringlets  ;  "  ahd  I  hâve  enjoyed  this  spring 
ever  so  much,  but  still  l'm  glad  to  get  home  again.     One 
g^ows  tired  of  balls,  and  parties,  and  the  théâtre,  you  know, 
after  awhile,  Mr.  Warden  ;  and  I  am  only  a  little  country- 
girl,  and  I  shall  be  just  as  glad  as  ever  for  a  romp  oyer  the 
ineaddws,  and  a  breezy  gallop  across  the  hills  once  more. 
If  you  or  Mr.  Maxwell,"  glancing  at  that  gloomy  youth 
^idçways  out  of  her  curls,  "care  much  fbr  fishing,  and 


I  1; 

I 


>      A  DARK  CONSPIRACY.  ,o 

389 

corne  up  our  way  any  tinie  this  summer  l'il  trv  ^r.A  ,     * 
you  as  welfas  you  hâve  treated  me  "  ^    ^  '"'^^ 

wlT ^Z^^""'."^''  ""^^'^^  "^  ^^"'  Miss  Fanny"   Mr 
Warden  said,  looking  unspeàkable^hings.     «  You  £ke  ou, 

''Notn,uch,"responded  Ton,,  èoodily.     «I  cant  se. 
tha.  you  hâve  kep.  your  promise.    You've  made  W  to 

«  Don't  you  ?  "  said  Paul,  thoughlfully  ligl,ti„g  his  dear 
WeJI,  corne  to  think  of  it;  I  don't  ei  her     Tn  In      ^ 
2*.  Ihaven-.  had  a  chan'ce  to  ji,.  w'"l  ly'^C^t 
ible,  and  I  hâve  no  doubt  I  ara,  since  you  sav  si    hu' 

monte.    Hère  I  hâve  been  for  the  last  two  months  iust 

ready  to  be  o«  to-morrow  to  the  countrv  without  .„n„T  1, 
as  a  crack  i„  the  heart  that  should  1^  b  olento  sXt     ' 
eens.     But  smi,"  „i.h  a  sudden  change  oî  voirtd 
sîappmg  h.n.  lighUy  on  a,e  shoulder,  «de^  oSlcH 

rom  lifted  his  glooray  eyes  in  sullen  inquinr. 
Never  mmd  «iw,"  «id  Paul  WardeS^  gaïf;  Tg^ 


\ 


■  ^J 


390 


A  DARK  CONSFIRACY. 


me  a  few  weeks  longer.  Lazy  as  I  am,  I  hâve  never 
failed  yet  in  anything  I  hâve  seriously  undertaken  ;  and. 
upon  my  word,  l'm  more  serious  about  this  matter  thac 
you  may  believe.     Trust  to  your  friehd,  and  wait." 

Thatwas  ail  Mr.  Warden  would  deign  to  say. 

Tom,  not  being  able  to  do  otherwise,  took  him  at  his 
Word,  dragged  out  existence,  and  waited  for  his  cherished 
revenge. 

Miss  Summers  left  town  next  day,  and  Tom,  poor,  mis- 
érable fellow,  felt  as  if  the  sun  had  ceased  to  shine,  and 
the  «cheme  of  the  universe  become  a  wretched  failure, 
when  he  caught  the  last  glimmer  of  the  lustrous  black 
eyes,  the  last  fluttér  of  the  pretty  black  curls.  But  his 
Damon  was  by  his  side  to  slap  him  on  the  back  and  cheer 
him  up. 

"  Courage,  old  fellow  !  "  cried  Mr.  Warden  ;  "  all's  not 
lost  that's  in  danger.  Turn  and  turn  about  ;  your  turn 
next." 

But,  somehow,  Tom  didn't  care  for  revenge  any  more. 
He  loved  that  wicked,  jilting  little  Fanny  as  much  as  ever  ; 
and  the  heartache  only  grew  worse  day  after  day  ;  but  he 
ceased  to  désire  vengeance.  He  settled  down  into  a  kind 
of  gentle  melancholy,  lost Jiis  appetite,  and  his  relish  for 
Tom  #hd  Jerrys,  and  took  to  writing  despondent  poetry 
for  the  weekly  journals.  In  this  state  Mr.  Warden  left 
him,  and  suddenly  disappeared  from  town.  Tom  didn't 
know  where  he  had  gone,  and  his  landlady  didn't  know  \ 
and  stranger  still,  his  bootmaker  and  tailor,  to  whom  he 
was  considerably  in  arrears,  didn't  know  either.  But  they 
were  soon  enlightened. 

Five  weeks  after  his  mysterious  disappearance  came  a 
letter  and  a  newspaper,  in  his  familiar  hand,  to  Tom,  while 


.>>  J 


r 


A  DARK  CONSPIRACY 
«ad"'  -  •=-a«a.t     He  opened  «.e  .e«„  fi„t  and 

«nPAi;^r»  T,  In  THE  COUNTRV. 

one  eJse  again  I  "  ^^^^  y°"' °or  any 

-  Had  Paul  WardermuXed  h^,  ^^  '""  ™  ""^  f^^^- 
tore  it  «pen,  looked  at^e  Hst  of  i  '""'*  ""=  ^^P"' 
atrocious  .ve,aUf  his  l^.^  S,ïs  S'  '"''  "= 

.  ï:-"y  Sun,™;.,  sect^^gSer-:    MrJ"V°  **'" 
of  this  town."  T  -^^^^  Summers, 

and  finlheS  tt  ^P'  '""  ''"'*"'  «'«d  Ae  letter 

f 

I  -  ^e^C'tTr tte"  '""""'"•  ^"■"■^'' 

had  fallen  in  love  wiA  m^,,     '  ^    ^-xj-^'d.    Pa„„y 
en  in  love  with  hlfaL'     ■,'^°û  '""''"•  ■""  ^  '>»d  Wl 

je™  jning  tor  jj^,  tfcougIi,^rtaaiîiedJbec 


'..  t^- 


&.*;-. . 


^^, 


?' 


392 


A  DARK  CONSPIRACY. 


and  I  inay  mention,  in  parenthesis,  I  am  the  happiest  ol 
mankind  ;  aftid  as  Artemus  Ward  remarks,  *  My  wife  says 
so  too.' 

"  Adieu,  my  boy.  We'U  àome  to  towfl  nexl  week,  where 
Fan  and  I  will  be  delighted  to  hâve  you  ca!l.  With  best 
regards  from  my  dear  little  wife,  \  am,  old  fellow, 

"  Your  devoted  friend, 

"  Paul  Warden." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Warden  didcome  to  town  next  week  ;  but 
Mr.  Maxwell  didn't  call.  In  point  of  fact  he  hasn't  called 
since,  and  doesn't  intend  to,  and  bas  given  his  friend 
Paul  the  •*  eut  direct."  And  that  is  how  Paul  Warden  got 
a  wife,  and  Tom  Maxwell  his  revenge. 


t 

I 

k !_: 

% 


^     ^bX^  Û^-^ 


.A-JÎLri^=i..^A^^^  't 


FOR  BETTER  FOR  WORSE. 


|N"D  ail  is  gone ?" 

Why,  no,  sir;  no    Mr    iri^^^u 

and  not  mucn  eifected  by  (he  sto^  l,    ^  ^  '""  °^  *'°g: 
New  York  to  tel,  Mr.  îleteher    hT:      .    f-  "*"  "'"'"  '""^ 

ago  he  was  worth  ha  H  mm        "^  '"""«^    ^  "eek 

me«ts,of  course;  bu. ftey  wl^  hJ'?."'  "''''  ''«'^ 
Mrs.  Fletcher  were  two  "-fe-s-and  Mr.  and 

Heteh*-'!'!/  '■"'  •"""  '^'  yo"  know  at  once    Mr 

now,  if  I  m  to  catch  the  nine-fifty 


/ 


394 


>  /"Oy?  BÉTTER  FOR  WORSE. 


r~% 


up-train,  I  had  better  be  starting.  Good-night,  sir.  Worso 
luck  nowybetter  next  timé." 

"  Good-night,"  Richard  Fletcher  said,  mechanically.  He 
was  leaning  against  the  low,  iron  gateway,  his  folded  arins 
lying  on  its  carved  top,  and  the  black  shadows  of  the 
beeches  shutting  hhn  in  like  a  pall.  Up  the  avenue  col- 
oied  lamps  gleamed  along  the  chestnut  walks,  blue,  red, 
and  green,  tuming  the  dark  November  night  to  fairy-land. 
The  wide  front  of  the  stately  mansion  was  ail  aglow  v^ith 
illumination,  with  music,  and  flowers,  and  fair  women; 
and  fairest,  where  ail  were  fair,  its  proud  young  mistress, 
vilarian  Fletcher. 

Twp  men,  stragglers  from  the  ball-room,  with  their  cigara 
lighteçl,  came  down  through  the  gloom,  close  to  the  motion- 
less  figure  against  the  iron  gâte — only  another  shadow 
among  the  shadows — so  close  that  he  heard  evefy  word. 

"Rather  superb  style  of  thing,  ail  this,"  one  said. 
"  When  Dick  Fletcher  does  this  sort  of  thing,  he  does  do 
it.  Wonderful  luck  he's  had,  for  a  poor-  devil,  who  five 
years  ago  hadn't  a  rap  ;  and  that  wife  of  his — giagnificent 
Marian — most  lovely  thing  the  sun  shines  on." 

"  Too  lovely,  my-friend,  for — she's  ice." 

"  Ah  1  To  her  husband  ?  Married  him  for  his  fortune, 
didn't  she  ?  The  old  stofy,  very  poor,  very  proud  j  and  sold 
to  the  highe^t  bidder.  Craymore  stood  to  win  there  once, 
didn't  he?" 

"It  was  a  desperate  flirtation — an  engagementC^he 
knowing  ones  do  say  ;  but  Capt.  Craymore  knows  better 
than  lo  indulge  in  such  a  luxury  as  a  penniless  wife.  So 
Fletcher  came  along,  made  rich  by  a  sudden  windfall,  and 
she's  Mrs.  Fletcher  to-night;  and  more  beautifui  and 
^|ûeenly  thaa  ever.    1  watched  her  danetag  witfe^raymore 


i= 


», 


\, 


POR  BETTER  FOR  IVORSE        ' 
h.u       I.  "395 

naji  an  hour  ago,  and  —  WpII  t  ,i,m  .^ 

he  is  .ortH  ha,fV.imo„.    ^^  ^ottu^J  "^'■"-  " 
beginning  tô  rain."  ^  °  ^^^  ^°"se»  ^t's 

"  Suppose  Fletcher  were  to  lose  h;=  *«^ 
then?"  ^^^^  ^'s  fortune— what 

"Mygoodfellow,he  would  lose  his  wife  in  .h   ' 
hour.     Some  women  there  are  whn         Tf  ^  ^^™® 

husbandstobeggarvl^and  h/'!     ^  ^"î?^"^  ^°>^  ^«" 
er  ;  but  not  thf Sy  Mart  't^  '"^  '^^^'<^' 

The  shadow  amon  J  th^hr^  ''  *'  '^"  ^^«ms  1  " 

A  iongjowwin7;rt?tretr:;dr^ 

melancholydrin  drin      wlif     ^^^^^'-^"^  ^^^  '^in  beat  its 
but  the  figL  l'e'an^S  again'  tL  rilat'^"'  '"^'  ^^^^^'  " 
.     the  iron  itself.     ButLt;  hest^  ^dT/'^^^^^ 

scious  he  was  dripping,  anVpa  ^"s,^^^^^^^^^^^^  -- 

gloom,   and  up  the  lamplit-avenue    and  in^l  .V     ^^^^ 
'7\f\^^^-to-nightf  would  beVslCre^^  '''''''    ' 

wet  gannents  changed  J^  fi^ed  white  ^'""7^°"™^'  ^» 
ing  but  little  of  his  LdTblow    He  t  h      fJ^"  '"''  ''"" 

^isradiantthreemonths'brM  lltS^^ 
,  laces,  arid  roses  resplendent-anH^i!"'''^^'*?^ 
rich  Fletcher I  "oX  «  .^  Jlf  1  ^°  ""^^  ^^^  ^«^  of  tJie 
«nanying.  S^t.  C^^^f  ^'^  ^  ^onored  by 

ting  than  ever.     Horcould  st.  «  f  ''^^'  "^'^  ^^^*^i«*'      ' 
one  so  plebèian  TL      î  l     ^""^  ^™^  *°  ^^^^  of  any 

.a^ii:^:î|!!^'^:X^  ""^r  --  «^d,  th^ 

in  tlie  raw  morhW  i^h/  J  "^'^  ^'''  dressing-roomf 


^«ïf     î^vii^ifb.^.  <.  ^*    V 


'AV^K    î',*  A.?«jWi*sîi,*^,^£- 


39^ 


FOR  BETTER  FOR  WORSE. 


lovely,  being  disrobed,  and  looked  round  with  an  irritated 
flush  at  the  abrupt  entranee  of  the  master  of  the..  house. 
He  did  not  often  intrude  ;  since  the  first  £ew  weeks  ol 
their  marriage  he  had  been  a  model  husband,  and  kept  his 
place.  Therefof e,  Mrs.  Fletchef  looked  surpriséd,  as  well 
as  annoyed  now. 

"Do  you  wish  to  speak  to  me,  Mr.  Fletcher?"  she 
asked,  coldly  ;  for  af ter  an  evening  with  Capt.  Craymore 
she  was  always  Kbss  tolérant  of  her  bourgeois  husband.      ^ 

"  Yes — ^but  alone.  \  will  wait  in  your  sitting-room  until 
you  dismiss  your  maid." 

Something  in  his  colorless  face — something  in  the  sound 
of  his  Toice  startled  her  ;  but  he  was  gonewhileyet  speak- 
ing,  and  the /maid  went  on.°  "  Hurry^  Louise,"  her  mis- 
tress  saidy  bipefly  ;  and  Louise  dbiled  jup  the  shining  hàîr, 
arranged  the  white  dressipg-gown,  and  left  her. 

Marian  Fletcher  arose  and  swept  into  the  next  room. 
It  was  the  daintiest  bijou  of  boudoirs,  ail  rose-silk,  and 
silver,  and  filigree^work,  and  delicious  Greuze  paintings, 
smiling  down  from  the  fluted  panels.  A  bright  wood-fire 
bjurned  <on  the  hearth,  and  her  husband  stood  against  the 
idw  chîmney-piece,  whiter  and  colder  than  the  marble  itself. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "  what  is  it  ?  '* 

He  looked  up.  She  stood  before  him  in  her  beauty  and 
her  pride,  jewels  flashed  on  her  fâiry  hands — a  queen  by 
right  divine  of  her  aiure  eyes  and  tinselled  hair — his,  yet 
not  his  ;  "se  near,  and  yet  so  far."  He  loved  her,  how 
well  his  own  wrung  heart  only  knéw. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  repeated,  impatiently.  *  I  am  tired 
and  sleepy.    Tell  me  in  a  word." 

"  I  can— ruin  I  " 

^What?" 


k-      i't,-.- 


„  /  .  "jf/iM-'^yt-y  t> 


tf^St,  ^vj:,  *', 


^     ;    .      FOR  BEITER  FOR  WORSE.  3^^ 

-I  am  ruined.  AU  is  gone.  I  am  a  beggar  " 
ohe  started  back,  turning  whiler  than  her  dresc  anà 
leaned  heavily  against  a  chair.  '    ^ 

«I^Ruii^d  J  "  she  repeated.     «  A  beggar  1  »  ^ 

LTglyjwords,  are  they  not?  but  quite  trup      l  a\a      * 

me.      My  last  grand  spéculation  has  failed    and    n  t, 

aJure  en^ulfed  eve^hing.      I  a™  as  poo  aT^he  pô:,és^ 

laborer  „,  this  estate;  poorer  d,an  I  „as  fiTe  yeafs  a!l 

before  tha  fortune  was  left  me."  ^^ 

put«t'fttl^'°l°^  Savage  pleasure  in  ftus  hideously 
putting  th^gs  ,„  their  ugliest  liglit.    Rich  or  poor  she 

.niT^'n^T'  l^tlements,  your  six  liundred  a-year 
and  the  D,^ver  farmf  that  crumb  o£  the  loaf  is  ,aZ 

Mammon,  h^  been  m  vain.  I  had  hoped,  when  I  marri^H 
you.  of  w,nJngson,e  retum  £or  .he  ifmitiessTove  T^  e 
Onl»        1'°'"'^'"  ""^ -'■""«  ""«  hope  has  b«r 

C     I  rivet     •      «/«"l  place,  and  I  ca„  win  my 
«ay.    Igive  |rou  your  freedom,  the  only  renaration  fi 
man3™gyou|n,yp-„„er,au,ake.    I  leave  ^^2^ 
New  York  to-Aorrow;  and  so-farewell!»  ^'*' 

.hrh=^'°°*'iT'"°"*'''*'"™''»»<il^tI>er.    Once 

w«  so^  andX\,     S° '■""■»-•>«  she  did  ,^    X 
^UtefTher  fX       ""'"  •'°™  "  *'  rose-and^lî!    ', 


V'.V'.'^  t.  .  jy#ll™  'li 


-<»■ 


V 


398 


FOR  SETTER  FOK'    rPORSE. 


A  month  l^ter,  and  she  was  far  away,  buried  alive  in  thc 
Dover  Cottage.  Allj  had  gone  ;  the  nine,  days  wonder 
wa,s  at  an  end  ;  th,e  "  rich  Fletcher  "  and  his  handsome 
Kife  had  disappeared  out  of  the  magie  whirl  of  society  ; 
and  Society  got  on  very  well  without  them.  They  had 
been,  and  they  were  not — and  the  story  was  told.  Of  ail 
who  had  broken  br,ead  with  the  ruined  mah,  there  were  not 
tw'o  wJio  cared  a  fillip  whether  he  were  living  or  dead. 

The  December  wind  wailed  over  the  stormy  sea,  and 
the  wintry  rain  lashed  the  Windows  of  the  Dover  Cottage. 
Marian  Fletcher  sat  before  the  blazing  fîre  în  â  long,  low, 
gloomy  parlor,  ahd  Capt.  Craymore  stood  before  her.  He 
had  but  just  found  her  out,  and  he  had  run  down  to  see 
how  stie  bore  her  altered  fortunes.  She  bore  the  m  as  ar 
uncrowned  queen  might,  with  régal  pride  and  cold  endur- 
ance. The  exquisite  face  had.lost  its  rose-leaf  bloom  ; 
the-deep,  still  eyes  looked  larger  and  niore  fathomless  ; 
*the  mouth  was  set  in  patient  pain — ^that  was  ail.  The 
man  îelt  his  heart  burn  as  he  looked  at  her,  she  was  so 
lovely,  so  lovely.  He  leaned  over,  and  the  passion  ate 
words  came  that  he  could  not  cheek.  Hè  loved  her.  She 
loved  him  ;  she  was  forsaken  and  alone — ^why  need  they 
part  ? 

She  listened,  growing  whiiier  than  a  dead  woman.  Then 
she  came  and  faced  him,  until  the  cowered  soûl  within  him 
shrank  and  quailéd.  ^ 

"I  hâve  faUen  very  low,"  she  s'aid.  ."I  am  poor,ynd 
alone,  and  "a  tlesèrted  wife.  But  Capt.  Craymore,  I  hâve 
not  fallen  low  enough  to  be  your  mistress.     Go  !  " 

Her  unflickering  fînger  pointed  to  the  door.  Theire  was 
that  in  her  fape  no  man  dare  dis|fcey,  and  he  sluîik  forth 


)  h 


''V 


; 


r^Oh 


^  TER  FOR  IVORSE^ 


parted  from  her  husband,  she  slipped  down  in  her  mîsery  to 
heground  and  hid  herbacé  in  herhands.    Now^elZe^ 
the  man  she  had  loved,  now  she  was  learniti^r  tuoTZ 
man  who  had  loved  heV     THp  «„«        .Tf  ^^^ 

tr.  K«^      .        ,'"'',     '^^'^-     -^«e  one  would  drag  her  down 

to  bottomless  depths  of  blackness  and  infamy  ;  the  oZ 
had  g..en  up  ail  for  her-even  herself-and  g;ne>br  h  â 
homeless  penniless  wanderer,  tofight  the  ^L  ofC 
Oh  I  truest  ajid^blest  !  "  her  heart  cried,  in  its  nas 

heTrtVh?"'  "'r  '  '^^^  "^°"^^^  y-^  ^r.;ZZ  bes 
heart  ^at  ever  beat  in  mâri's  breast-am  I  only  to  know 
your  worth  when  ,it  is  too  late  ?"  ^  ^ 

nf  ^hr"'^  '°û    ^'"''"'■^  ^'^'^^^^  ^^d  disappeared  out 
o{  the  world^t^e  world  she  knew-as  utterlyas  though 

d  earil    T'I  ""T  "  '''       ^^^   ^'^^  ^-^L   draggfd 

drearlyby-butrhenevercame.     The^piteous  adverfse 
•  rnent  an  thé  Wnewspaperstood  unaLwe  ed  when   he 

.pnng-buds  burst  ;  and  she  was  alon.  in  her  worse  thaa 

widowhood,  in  thë  Dover  Cottage  still 

Wlth  the  glory  of  t|,e  brilhant  n>w  suminFr/new  hooe 
dawnedfor  her.  A  tiny  naess^S^^^th  Richard  Fl^heTs 
great  brown  eyes,  smiled  up  in  her  face,  and  a  babTheld 
nestled  agamst  her  lonely  heart:    Ah  I  '.he  knewTw  ho^ 
*he  loved  baby's  fatiaer,  when  the  broU  eyes,  of  whTçh 
thèse  were  the  counterpart,  were  lost  to  |,er  fL;'' 
lî,Vh' ^'      ?u  ^''*  ^""'^^  '^"'  °"^'  ^"d  with  only  baby 
.cottage.  The  wmds  of  winter  had  five  times  swept  ov3    < 
/he  ceasejess  .ea,  and  littje  Richard  could  toddle  aud  lisn 
and  m  Manan  Fletcher's  heart  hope  slowly  died  out 

^had  been  bound  in  the  mysterious  tie^^^^^ 
JKOuldoeve*  look  upoir^Werfac^^âin.  — -^^^^ 


J 


400 


FOR  BETTB  »  FOR  WORSE. 


■i 


ss» 


A 


She  sat  one  stormy  November  night,  thinking  very  sadlj 
of  the  true  beart  and  strong  love  she  had  cast  âway. 
Her  boylayasleep  before  the  ruddyfire;  the  rain  and 
wind  beat  like  human  things  against  the  glass.  She  sal 
looking  seaward,  with  weary,  empty  eyes,  so  desolate—sa 
desolate,  her  soûl  crying  out  with  unûtterable  yearning  f6r 
the  wanderer  to  corne  back. 

As  she  stoo/i  there  gazing  sadly  out  at  the  wild  night 
fallmg  over  the  wild  sea,  her  one  servant  came  huriiedly 
inïo  the  room  with  staVtled  afïright  in  hei'e^s. 

"  Oh,  ma'am,"  she  cried,  "  such  a  dreadfuLhing  J  The 
up  train  from  New  York  has  had  an  accident/h:is  fell  over 
the  ertibankment  just  below  hère  and  half  the  passengert 
are  kiUed  ajid  wounded.  Th^eams  as  I  came  past  wàs 
awtul  to  hear.  But  surely/iSâ'aw,"  the  woman  broke  {fl 
m  dismay  as  her  mistress  seized  her  hat  and  shawl,  «  yini 
won't  go  out  and  itraining  and  dblowingfit  to  take  you  ^fï 
yôtir  feet.  You  can't  do  nothing,  and  you'll  get  yojir 
death."  " 

.But  Mrs.  Fletcher  was  out  âli^ady,  heedless  of  wind  of 
rain,  and  making  her  way  to  the  scène  of  ^le  àcci^rt  * 
.«ï>oor  sôuIs,"  she  was  thinking,  "se  sudden  and  fngl^tf]i 
a  fatè.    Perhaps  I.can  be  of  help  to  some  one.' 
life  trouble  had  done  this  f^her;  made  her* 
heart,  and  pitiful  of  soûl  to  alfwho  suiïered. 

A  grèat  crowd  were  there  from  Dover  villlgc  »»  suc 
drew^néar,  beginning  to  bear  away  the  wounded,  the  dying 
--"""'"- 1  deàd.     Groans  and  cries  of  infinité  misery  made  the 
hideous.      Mrs.   Flçtchefcy  ^uddéred,  but 
utely^çver  a  man.wlw  la)>^  almost  at  her 
sïie.  might  hâve  thought  dead  but  for  the 
now  ailrthên  came  frofn  hik  lipaL._^_ 


,*■ .. 


î^-t 


-  v-\ 


*î     iS 


,<> 


K 


-  y        - 

f-UR  BETTsàPOP  WORSE.       \ 

■^éthing  vaguely  familiar  in  his  look.    '  *^ 

irSftSf  ï"do  anythingforyou?"  she  asked,  «I  fear  vou 
0fe^  veiy  baâly  hurt."  ^        ^ 

elbow  X'P^^I/ jii-*^^^^"»  l'ghthe  half  arose  on  hi, 

Manan  Fleteher's  amis.    OverWs  pillow  life  and  Death 

^l^Lf^'^'^i''^'^'  "^^"^  '-^  weeks,  whil^l  : 
watched  over  him,  anH  prayed  beside  him  în  what  agonv  " 

^In"'""^  "^•"    "V-"^"-".  and  great'and 

"  Marian,"  he  said  faintly/"  my  wifê  »       '      '  " 

^    She  was  on  her  knees  beside  him,  his  weak  head  l/in^ 
m  her  «aressing  armjs.  ^   ^ 

î  kTu  '^!^'?^'  ™^  ^^^^'*'  *^^  God  ;  my  own,  my  ther- 
|hed  husband,  forgiye  your  erring  wi^."  ',  '  ^ 

n,?'!  '^''!  ''*  '^^  ^  '"^  ""'^'•^^  h^  looi^ed  up  into  tlle 
pak,  tear  Wet,  passioïiately  eamesUace.  " 

teTL  r  "^^t.T^^"'^-    ^l?t  Marian,  what  if^I  must 
tell  you  I  am  stiM  pc^r,  poor  as  when  we  parted.-.  She 

shrunkawayasthoukhehadhùrther 
^«  I  hâve  deserved  ihat  you  shôuld  say  this  to  me  "rshe 


./ 


402 


FOR  BETTER  FOR  WORSE. 


f 
.  Vil 


in  the  past — whyshould  you  thinlj!:  meother  than"  heartlesa 

and  mercenary  still.    But  oh,  Richard,  don't  you  see 1 

love  you  now,  so  dearly  and  truly,  my  husband,  that  I  can 
never  hâve  any  life  apart  from  you  more.  Do  not  talk  to 
me  of  poverty-only  tell  me  you  wiU  never  leave  me  again." 
"  Never  again,"  he  answered,  "  till  death  us  do  part.  But 
Marian,  though  1  am  no  longer  the  millioniare  you,  married, 
I  do  not  retum  to  you  quite  a  beggar.  More  or  less  I  h^ve 
retrieved  the  past,  and  we  can  begin  life  anew  âlmost  as 
luxuriously  as  we  lefj;  it  oflF."  Her  face  clouded  for  a 
moment. 

"  Ah  I  I  am  sorry.  I  wanted  to  atone  :  how  can  I  now  ? 
I  hâve  been  your  wife  in  the  sunshine.  I  thoughtjko  show 
you  what  I  could  be  in  the  shadow,  and  now  ail  that  is  at 

an  end.     I  can  never  show  you  hôw  I  hâve  repented  for 

that  night." 

But  Richard  Fletcher  only  smiles  a  smile  of  great  con- 
te'^ti  And  in  the  silence  that  ensues,  there  cornes  over 
thesnowy  fields  the  joyful  bells  of  the  blessed  Christmas 
morning,  and  in  their  hear^s  both  bless  God  for  the  new 
.\ife,  that  dawns  with  this  holy  day. 


nu  Bim 


.-,. .,'..  h   y,*-  «".■; 


1881. 


1881. 


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Îxr^^^'^''^  AND  SUN.SHINE. 
tNGUSH   ORPHANS 
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'LENA   RIVERS. 
MEADOW  BKOOK.  i*. 
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DARKNESS  AND  DAYLIGHT 

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"Mrs.  Ho.      P^^N'ONS    OP    THE    PRESS 
Mrs.   Holmes'  stone.s  are  universally  «ad      H.r  ,^ 
She  .s  m  many  respecfs  without  a  rival  in  rhf       m    ,  .=  admirers   are  numberies». 

same  emotioris,  swayed  by  the  sar^e  d1ssZ=        i  ■"""  '^'^'"8^  *"'^'«=l  '»  'he 

which  are  comm.,„  amongVe„  a„d  wom         ;  ^''"^'''^  "^^  '^^  ='^"'«=  "-otives 

«  very  happy  i„   portraylnrdo.estrc  ^  "  OmU^  "'^"=""-     ^^  Hol..es 
w.th  great  dtlight,    for   she  writes   in  =,         ,       u  '"'""^  ^^'"'^  »>"  '^'°'-les 

The  North  American   Review   vol    « 
Holmes' novel,  "English  Orphans"-"  wL    l'^'^'   5",  s.ys   of  Mrs.   Mary  J. 
been  charmed,  and  so  hâve  a  p^ttv  nu!^  ■  T"'  °^  ^^''-  ""'■"«'  *«  '^"'ve 

whom  we  hâve  lent  it.  The  c2ct  rT/  ""  •"■  '  "'  discriminating  readers  to 
concems  rural  and  vill..,e  lifrof  whth Th  ""  "  """"'"•  ""^""''^  ^»  ''»'•  - 
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thus  gracefully  constructed  aorSen  inoT'"'""''''!''-  '"'"■'^°^"'  '^^^  »'°^y 
pure  Christian  morality  in  gener.l   b  .     "'.rr         1  """'°"'  °^""<^^^S,  not  only 

dcnceortr.esuccesson^haL.etnVo;r;^XbT;rL^^^^^^ 

W  Jno^rrS  t;Zt:^Z:iT''-'  -^  ^^^^^  '---  «nere. 
but  t  is  of  a  healthy  and  ab  dL^charr ter  'a  Ln"""*^'  ""'  scnsationalism, 
pubhsher  might  choose  to  announce  from   h;r  f."''  "''"   ^"^^  ^'''  ^   he, 

gênerai  readmg.  The  interest^lher  a^s  t  ^"  '"'"'''  ""''  ""  '"""^'''■■*"=  *"<! 
the  close.  Her  sentiments  a^  so  sound  tf""  "  T"'  ""''  "  "'^'""'''"«J  ^ 
and  her  knowled^e  of  mannerT  tL  '       ^  "î'n'Pa'h.es  so  warm   and  r.ady. 


r^ARLETOff  Si CO..  Publishers,       ' 
Madison  Square,  New   York, 


J 


CHARLES   DICKENS'   WORKS. 


A  NEW 


<Si 


EDITION. 


Among  themany  éditions  of  the  works  of  this  grcatesf  of 
Engiish  Novclisis,  there  has  not  been  until  now  onc  tliat  eiitirclV 
satisties  the  publiqdemand.—Without  exception,  theyeacli  havi 
«orne  strong  distinctive  objection,— either  the  form  and  dimen; 
siens  of  the  volumes  are  unhandy —  or,  the  type  is.  smaH  and 
indistinct — or,,tHe  illustrations  are  unsatisfactory — or,  the  bind 
ing  is  ppor — or,  the  priée  is  too  hich. 
^  An  entirely  new  édition  is  now,  howeyer,  publisbed  by  G.  W, 
Carleton  &  Co.,  of  New  York,  which,  in  every  respect,  com- 
pletftly  éatisfies  the'popular  demand.— It  is  known  as 

"  CarletonV  New  Illastrated  Edition." 

Complète  in  15  Volumes.  ' 

The  size  and  form  is  most  convenient  for  holding, — the  type  ta 
entirely  new,  and  of  a  clearand  open  charactçr  tbat  has  received 
the  approval  or  the  reading  community  in  other  works. 

The  illustrations  are  by  the  original  artists  chosen  by  Charlesl 
Dickens  himself— and  the  papcr,  printing,  and  binding  are  of  ani 
attractive  and  substantial  character.  -v,^ 

This  beautiful  new  édition  is  cpmplete  in  15  volumes — at  the 
extrsmely  reasonable  price  of  $1.50  per  volume,  as  follows  ;— 

I. — PICKWICK   PAPERS  AND  CATALOGUE. 

a.— OLIVtR  TWIST. — UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVKLLER. 

3. — DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 

4.— GREAT  EXPECTATIONS. — ITALY  AND  AMERICA    ' 

5. — DOMBEV  AND  SON. 

6. — BARNABV  RUDGE  ANO  EDWIN  DROOD. 

7. — NICHOLAS  N.1CKLEBV. 
.     8. — CÙRIOSITV  SHOP  AND  MISCELLANEOUS. 

9. — BLEAK  HOUSE. 
10.— LITTLE  DORRIT.  >-v, 

II. — MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT. 
13.— OUR  MUTUAL  FRIEND. 

13. — CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. — ^TALE  OF  TWO  CITIKS. 
14. — SKETCH^  BY  BOZ  AND  HARD  TIMES. 
15.— CHILD'S  ENGLAND  and  MISCMIANEOUS. 

The  first  7olume— Pickwi::k  Papers — contains  an  alpbabetirftl 
catalogue  of  ali  of  Charles  Dickens'  writings,  with  their  exîrt 
positions  in  the  volumes. 

This  édition  is  sold  by  Booksellers,  everywhere— and  sangle 
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ceipt  of  price,  $1.50,  by  ^^ 


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